


Gut Punch

by TheManedRedFox



Category: Psych
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood, Caring, Crimes & Criminals, Deception, Depression, Determined Lassiter, Friendship, Gunplay, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Jokes, M/M, Murder, Mystery, Secrets, Suspense, Worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2018-08-24 06:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8361361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManedRedFox/pseuds/TheManedRedFox
Summary: Carlton Lassiter lives for his job as SBPD's Head Detective but when a potentially life threatening illness wreaks havoc on his body, forcing him to keep secrets, grapple with uncertainly, and struggle to maintain his composure; all while trying to close one of the most difficult murder investigations of his career...this case just might be his last one.(originally posted on FanFiction.com)





	1. Hello doc, goodbye peace of mind

     It started gradually. Weight loss and the slight tremor in his hands. Symptoms easily pushed aside, easily attributed to other less serious things. The tremors in his hands could be from too much caffeine pumping through his veins. The weight loss could be from the long hours and subpar foods, consisting mainly of take-out and Ramen. But when the gut-retching pain started deep in the pit of his stomach, he could no longer ignore it.

  
Carlton Lassiter took a taxi to the free clinic in the heart of downtown Santa Barbara, careful to leave anything that could be used to easy identify him, namely his badge and gun, at home. He gave a fake name to the nurse and paid in cash. On some unconscious level, Carlton must have known, or at least suspected, that what was happening to his body was cause for alarm. That’s way he hadn’t ask O’Hara to drive him to hospital, that way he avoided any clinics that would require proper documentation and proof of insurance.

  
He suspected whatever was happening was potentially severe enough to force him into medical leave for God knew how long. He couldn’t allow that. Lassiter’s heart beat for the job, he bled blue. If whatever he had didn’t kill him, being away from his job most certainly would.

  
Carlton sat in the grimy waiting room, under the fluorescent lights that occasionally flickered. The smell of piss and cigarettes flicked him in the nose. An unkempt women rocked on the edge of her seat at the opposite end of the room. She was sputtering something under her breath, along the lines of “two equals three, three than becomes two, then one, then two again.” Carlton felt a vague scene of curiosity mixed with disgust but it was muted in the midst of his own pain. He did notice the ragged clothes she wore and the platinum blonde hair that hung in curtains around her face. Her head snapped up as the clock chimed, signifying the hour, nine o’clock. She had such a delicate face, high cheek bones, full lips, and long lashes. She seemed so out of place in those clothes and in this place. Lassiter didn’t have time to speculate further because the nurse at the front desk finally summoned him.

  
The tired nurse who took his information earlier, passed him to another nurse as equally run down yet seemly determined to maintain some semblance of his bed-side manner; had a smile firmly locked into place. There was no joy behind the smile though, it was just teeth and gums and nothing else. Happy, as Lassiter callously dubbed him, led Lassiter into a separate room. He recorded his height and weight before again leading Lassiter into yet another room to wait for the doctor. This room was marginally cleaner than the waiting room, with a raised lime green table with a sanitary roll of paper to cover it.  
Lassiter eased himself onto the raised table and waited in earnest from the doctor; to his great relief, the doctor arrived shortly. He was a stout man, with small watery eyes, and looked every bit as weary as the nurses. He flipped through the chart before glancing up at Lassiter.

  
“Good evening, Mr. Lawson. I am Doctor Tolbert. It says here that you have come here about stomach pain, is that correct?” the doctor asked, rolling a stool from the opposite side of the room, placing it directly in front of Lassiter before proceeding to sit down.

  
“Yes,” Lassiter said gruffly. He had his arms tightly wrapped over his abdomen.

  
“Can you describe the symptoms to me?"

  
Lassiter inhaled deeply before beginning, “Nausea and heartburn.” Lassiter rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, “Trouble sleeping. The cases I’m working keep rattling around in my head whenever I close my eyes,” The word ‘cases’ was too synchronous with law-enforcement. Lassiter realized his mistake in his poor word choice at once and rushed to fix it, “insurance claims can be so tedious. You know, no rest for the wicked,” he self-consciously grinned.

  
“I see,” Doctor Tolbert tapped the tip of his pen on the clipboard. “Have you had any instances of vomiting?”

  
Lassiter paled a little before nodding. That was another symptom he had attributed to the bad diet of a cop.

  
Doctor Tolbert rubbed the stubble on his chin. “You haven’t been to Mexico lately, have you?”

  
“No.”

  
“Please pull up your shirt and lie back.”

  
With a grunt of discomfort Lassiter did as the doctor instructed. He began to gingerly prod Lassiter’s stomach. Tolbert was obviously making a great effort to be gentle but Lassiter still groaned with pain.  
“How has your appetite been?” Dr. Tolbert inquired, picking up his clipboard again to take notes.

  
“I haven’t had much of one,” Lassiter replied.

  
“Weight loss?”

  
“Maybe ten pounds in the couple of weeks.”

  
“Indigestion?”

  
“Yes,” Lassiter answered again.

  
“How is your energy level?”

  
“Dismal, Doc.”

  
“Mr. Lawson, I would like to run a test before you leave. I’d like to perform an ultrasound,” Doctor Tolbert clicked his tongue. “Can you wait a moment while I get the equipment I need?”  
Lassiter only nodded. His eyes were still watering, a lingering after effect of the pain the prodding had caused.

  
The doctor left and quickly returned with Happy, the nurse, and an ultrasound machine. Dr. Tolbert instructed the nurse to draw a blood sample as he began hooking up the machine.

  
As Happy was helping roll up his sleeve, Carlton threw a worried look in the doctor’s direction. “Do you think it’s a boy or girl?” he attempted to joke.

  
Happy chuckled through his permit smile, it came out as a hiss.

  
“What?” Dr. Tolbert asked, clearly not listening.

  
“Never mind,” Lassiter sighed. “Should I be worried?”

  
“No,” the doctor said none too convincingly.

  
Carlton jumped when Happy pricked his veins without warning and filled two vials before removing the needle. He wiped the point of injection with gauze and covered it up with a Superman Band-Aid, with that he existed the room with the vials of blood and without uttering a word.

  
Doctor Tolbert put a cold liquidly substance on Lassiter’s stomach before moving the transducer probe in circles, all while looking at a grainy black and white monitor. Lassiter craned his neck to see the screen but couldn’t make heads or tails out of what he was seeing. After a while, the doctor clicked his tongue once more and turned to Lassiter with a somber expression upon his face.

  
“What is it?” Lassiter demanded.

  
Dr. Tolbert indicated the screen. “The good news is your gall blabber is healthy but--“

  
“Doctor,” Lassiter interrupted, “what is it?”

  
Dr. Tolbert sighed heavily. “It may be an ulcer. I don’t think it’s a peritonitis. I don’t see any signs of an abscess. “

  
Lassiter interrupted, “Doc, I have to be honest, I’m not sure what that means.”

  
“Oh, yes. Please excuse me.” The Doctor looked slightly embarrassed. “Peritonitis is the inflammation of the peritoneum—a silk-like membrane that lines your inner abdominal wall and covers the organs within your abdomen. An abscess is a pocket of pus located in the abdomen.”

  
“You don’t think it’s either of those?” Lassiter raised his eyebrows.

  
“No, because it seems,” Dr. Tolbert pointed at the screen, “to be no indication of built up fluid in your abdomen from an infection and I don’t see any perforations or holes in your peritoneum.”

  
“So?” Lassiter pressed, sensing that the doctor had more to add. “What do you think it is?”

  
“I don’t want to alarm you,”

  
‘Too late,’ Lassiter thought.

  
“But there is always the slightest possibility of an adenocarcinoma--”

  
“What?” Lassiter interrupted again.

  
“A malignant tumor.”

  
“Or?” Lassiter dreaded asking the question but he had to know. He suddenly felt very nervous. He was unconsciously wringing his hands together.

“Or stomach cancer.”

  
Lassiter felt his heart jump up into his throat. Damn, he had suspected whatever it was, was probably serious, but cancer. . . “I never thought,” he whispered.

  
“Nor should you. I only mention it because the symptoms of cancer and ulcers, in particular, are so similar that one can easily be mistaken for the other.”

  
“But you’re not sure, you said ‘slightest,’ right?” Lassiter asked, hope budding like a flower in his chest.

  
“I did.” The somber expression came over Tolbert again, “But if it is stomach cancer, symptoms usually don’t appear until the disease is advanced. By this point it has already spread to other parts of the body.”

  
“Meaning?” Lassiter pressed.

  
“It means, Mr. Lawson, that the rate of survival is very low.”

  
The flower wilted and died.

  
“However, without proper tests, it’s hard to say for sure, although the symptoms do match the signs of cancer. We will send your blood out for testing. The lab will perform a complete blood count to look for anemia. Cancer can sometimes cause red blood cells to wear out faster than normal and the body cannot replace them as quickly as they are needed. Cancer can slow down your body’s ability to make red blood cells or interfere with your body’s ability to used stored iron.” Dr. Tolbert explained, “And blood chemistry tests to look for signs of cancer spread to the liver. I can’t be sure without the use of an endoscopy or a CTs scan, which we simply don’t have and a test we frankly aren’t equipped to perform.” Dr. Tolbert looked Lassiter full in the face. “I don’t want to presume to judge, by the looks of it, from your suit and well-kept appearance I would assume that you aren’t as desperate for a free clinic as our usual type. Are you here out of town? Just lose your job?”

  
When Lassiter didn’t answer, the doctor continued, “If you have the means, I would suggest you go to a proper hospital and get the whole nine-yards. Though I think it could be cancer doesn’t necessarily mean it is. It could just as easily be a virus or an ulcer. I have been wrong before. That’s probably why I work here instead of one of those fancy hospitals that only cater to old wealthy heiresses. Its better you get all the facts. It’s damn near impossible to fight an enemy in the dark. If you can’t go there for whatever reason, the blood results will give us an idea what we’re dealing with. Do you have a number we can contact you at in approximately a week?”

  
“No,” Lassiter said too quickly. Doctor Tolbert looked suspicious. “No, I don’t. I’m from out of town. Staying with a friend. I wouldn’t want to worry them. I’ll just swing by and get the results then.”

  
Still looking suspicious, Dr. Tolbert took out two scripts from a nearby cabinet and handed them to Lassiter one at a time. “This prescription will reduce the stomach acid you are producing; hopefully give your stomach wall a chance to rebuild,” Tolbert handed Lassiter the second script, “And this is for a specifically painkiller. Don’t mix them with alcohol or any other substances. These painkillers are serious meds. I want you to take it easy for the next couple weeks, no strenuous activities, no if at all possible. And don’t drive,” he added as an afterthought. “Have that friend of yours drive you.”

  
Lassiter gave a noncommittal nod of his head before pushing himself up with another grunt, tucking his shirt in, and making his way out of the free clinic. He would think of the consequences of the doctor’s diagnosis later, for now all he wanted was the pain to stop. Once out on the street he began walking to an open pharmacy down the block that he knew never checked identification. He made a mental note to bust the establishment on this later but for now he was damn thankful for their rule breaking.


	2. Sneak Attack!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lassiter weights his options and comes to a decision.

After a brief contemplation of his situation, Lassiter came to the decision that he would refrain from making any decision until he got the results back from Dr. Tolbert. Lassiter made a point to forcibly ignore the little voice trying to creep into his brain whispering, ‘You’re in denial.’

He rationalized that the positives of waiting far outweighed the negatives. For one, it might just be an ulcer or virus which could probably be treated by prescription medication and without anyone finding out. He wouldn’t even have to miss a day of work. Two, if he did tell everyone he would have to endure the sympathetic looks and all those cliché sayings about hope. Three, he didn’t want Vick to think this impeded his ability to do his job in any way. It was a usual form of torture for Lassiter to be stuck on desk duty. No, he decided to wait and see what the test results yielded before planning his next move. And if Lassiter had any doubts, all he had to do was pop a couple of the prescribed pills, and presto! The pain would be gone.

On Monday morning, Lassiter took a taxi to work. He knew he would be drilled about this uncharacteristic behavior so before coming to work he had invented a story that his Crown-Vick had gotten a flat tire. The brief image of O’Hara dropping him off and seeing his car wholly intact popped into his head. Being a good detective she would be quick to raise some uncomfortable questions. To justify the veracity of his story, Lassiter actually took a kitchen knife to the left rear tire. It caused Lassiter great distress to willfully cause damage to his own car. It was going to cost the city’s tax dollars to fix it; but he simply didn’t see any other option. It was a bitter pill to swallow but it was a pill Lassiter swallowed willingly, all so he could protect his secret, avoid desk duty, and stay of the streets solving crimes; where he believed he belonged.

“Where’s your car?” O’Hara asked, as he knew she would, as he settled himself down in his chair.

“Flat tires,” Lassiter said, switching on his computer. “I didn’t have time to fix them before work.”

“Bad luck,” O’Hara said, clicking her tongue. “Want me to grab you a coffee? I heading that way.”

Lassiter’s stomach twisted as he contemplated the gut punch an acidic drink like coffee would induce. “No thanks.”

O’Hara shrugged before heading off to the coffee bar.

Lassiter pulled the pile of files closer to himself with only a slight twinge of pain; the pills, while still effective, had begun to lose their potency ever since Sunday morning.

“What’s up, Lassie-face?” Shawn chimed in a sing-song voice.

Shawn’s unexpected appearance at his side make Lassiter jump, which in turn caused his knobby knees to bang audibly against the desk. To everyone else, Lassiter’s expression of agony stemmed from that, when in fact the true cause was the jerky movement of his torso.

“Damn it,” Lassiter growled.

“I’m sorry, Lassie,” Shawn said apologetically. “What happened to your usual cat-like reflexes?” Shawn imitated a feline as he curled his hands in a weak impression of clawed paws and hissed loudly.

“I don’t know,” Lassiter snapped, still hunched over.

“Maybe there taking a cat nap, eh?” Shawn said, winking at Lassiter.

“For God’s sake, Spencer. Go away.” Lassiter tried to take in deep, steadying breaths without noticing.

Shawn studied Lassiter with his brow furrowed. “Seriously, dude, are you okay? How hard did you hit your knees?”

“I’m fine.” Lassiter straightened up in his chair as if to prove it.

Shawn still didn’t look convinced. “I’ll go get an ice pack.”

“I’m fine,” Lassiter called at Shawn’s retreating back as he strode down the hall toward the break room.

Shawn and O’Hara passed each other in the hallway.

“Shawn,” O’Hara said smiling.“Leaving already?”

“Without saying hello to my favorite detective? Never.”

O’Hara blushed.

“I was just heading to the break room to grab an ice pack. I startled Lassiter into banging his long old scarecrow knees against his desk.”

“You startled Lassiter?” O’Hara asked, somewhat surprised.

“I know, right? Either I’m getting better or Lassie is losing his touch.” They both turned to glance at Lassiter, who was pouring over one of the many files stacked on his desk. “Does he look a bit--“Shawn was struggling to find the right word, “a bit. . .”

“Sad,” O’Hara finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you are enjoying it so far.


	3. I've seen you somewhere before. . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead people tell no tales. . .or do they?

They were in the car on the way to a crime scene. O’Hara was driving. The position felt wholly alien to her. Lassiter always drove, always. But he had insisted that she drive.

She chanced a glance at Lassiter while waiting for a light to change. His expression was hard to read with his eyes masked by his aviators. However, he did look more pale and gaunt than usual. 

O’Hara cleared her throat. “When is the last time you had a decent meal?”

Lassiter inclined his head towards her. “What are you, my mom?” 

“Hardly,” O’Hara scoffed, “but I’m serious. You look a bit thin.” 

Lassiter shrugged. “I don’t know, yesterday morning,” he lied. You would have thought he had just admitted to being the Unabomber by how O’Hara reacted. 

“Carlton,” O’Hara slapped the palm of her open hand against the steering wheel, outraged. “That’s it. I’m buying you a healthy, filling dinner.” 

As his mind contemplated the idea of food, his body reacted by automatically objecting the idea. A chain reaction began in his body, starting with nausea and ending with bile climbing up his throat. 

He wished he had come up with a better lie.

“You don’t have to do that,” Lassiter began to protest.

“No arguments,” O’Hara cut him off in a firm tone of voice. “I want to,” she added more tenderly after a moment of silence. 

Lassiter scowled but relented. There was no point arguing with O’Hara when she was like this. He would try to get out of it later. Maybe the crime scene would be enough to distract her, he hoped.

They had been called to a strip of graveled road on the very outskirts of town. On one side of the road sat a dilapidated factory building which had been abounded for years; all the windows were smashed in and the once white walls were peppered with graffiti. On the opposite side of the road lay a dense forest. 

In the middle of the road was a large splatter of dried blood. And in the middle of all that blood was the body of a young women.

Her clothes were tattered and stained to a steel gray. Her hair had once been bleached blonde, Lassiter suspected, but nature, namely the dirt had tinted it a few shades darker. She had fallen on her stomach, with her arms, which were covered from palm to elbow in lacerations, curled around her head. As if she had been trying, even in the last instances of life, to shield herself from the bite of death. 

Lassiter opened his mouth to begin asking questions when a wave of pain suddenly struck him. He quickly snapped his jaw shut with a sharp click to stop the groan of misery threatening to escape his lips. 

After a long awkward pause, O’Hare stepped in. 

“Do we have an I.D. on the victim?” O’Hara asked a blue uniform working the scene. He shook his head. “Murder weapon?” The uniformed officer shook his head again. 

“Jules, Lassie!” 

Lassiter and O’Hara both turned around to see Shawn and Gus struggling through the tangle of weeds and wild trees that engulfed the road on one side. “Sorry it took so long. The patrol wouldn’t us park any closer than the Interstate. We have been fighting literally tooth and nail to get here. Gus ripped his sleeve.” 

“You owe me a new shirt, Shawn,” Gus gripped. 

“Why me?” Shawn asked incredulously. “The forest did it.”

“Because it was your bright idea to hike through the woods,” Gus countered.

“No one invited you Spencer,” Lassiter growled.

“Come on, Lassie, you know the Chief is going to want us for this one.” 

“So you haven’t actually been hired yet?” Juliet asked crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Hired is merely a technical term.” Shawn wiggled his eyebrows at her, “And besides I sense it’s going to happen.” He put a finger to his temple. 

Lassiter frowned and had turned his attention back to the body. He would deal with Spencer later. 

“We’re all done here, Detective,” a uniformed CSU lab tech said, looking up at Lassiter from his kneeling position. “We’re going to turn her over now.” 

“Yes, yes,” Lassiter said impatiently. 

The lab tech gently rolled the young women over onto her back. Lassiter’s jaw dropped. She had been the woman from the clinic. Lassiter, swimming through a haze of pain recalled her clothes and disheveled hair; but it was that face. Who could forget that face? 

O’Hara sighed mournfully. “She was beautiful.” And she was. She had near perfect cream colored skin. Her lips were plump, full, and naturally stained red. Her eyebrows well defined, eyelashes naturally long and dark without the use of mascara. It seemed almost paradoxical that such a rare beauty would be wrapped in rags. 

Shawn and Gus joined the circle around the deceased women. 

O’Hara bite her lip and squinted her eyes, “She looks familiar. . .”

“You know her?” Lassiter fidgeted nervously. Paranoia ran rampant through his mind. Was Juliet about to reveal the victim’s identity? With an I.D. it would be relatively easy to establish a time line leading up to the time of her death. The time line would eventually lead them to the free clinic and the free clinic would lead to him. 

O’Hara shrugged with frustration. “She might be someone vice busted for prostitution, or maybe I picked her up for shoplifting? Hell, I might have seen her in booking once. I’m not sure. I just know I recognize her from somewhere.” 

“Don’t all degenerates look the same?” Lassiter muttered gruffly. He hoped his comment would steer her further from the truth. 

O’Hara gave him a hard look. 

“This is tragic,” Gus whispered. “She was so beautiful and young.” 

Shawn elbowed him in the ribs, “Dude, don’t be a Crypt Keeper. She’s dead.”

“I didn’t mean it like that Shawn,” Gus scrawled. “Don’t be gross.”

Lassiter had knelt down very close to the woman. His eyes searched her face. What could have happened in the last forty eight hours for her to turn up dead? 

Shawn had put a hand to his temple. “The spirits tell me that all this blood is superficial.” Before anyone could interrupt him, Shawn continued, “The laceration on her back, although nasty as hell, isn’t deep enough to have killed her.” Shawn had noticed the mark as soon as the CSU tech had rolled her over. 

“What did kill her?’ O’Hara asked.

“That,” Shawn said, pointing to a small mark over the women’s heart.   
“What is it?” O’Hara asked, leaning over Lassiter. 

“It looks like a burn,” Lassiter observed, pressing the mark with his gloved figures.  
“Exactly,” Shawn affirmed, finally lowering his hand from his temple. 

“A burn from what?’ Gus asked. 

Shawn shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Lassiter’s brain pulled the women’s cryptic words from his memory. He began to mouth them, rolling them over. For a brief moment, his mind went back to a college course about Greek mythology; wasn’t there something slightly similar to what the Sphinx said in the myth of Oedipus? Lassiter shook his head. The number in the Sphinx’s riddle to Oedipus went four, two, three; the woman’s singular, apostrophe cryptic mutterings had been three, two, one, then two again. . . In an instant of clarity, Lassiter suddenly had an idea. 

“Carlton?” O’Hara asked, looking at her partner.

Lassiter turned to the CSU lab tech, “Is there any way to tell if this women was pregnant or had been recently?”

“What are you talking about, Lassie?” Shawn said now taking a knee. He couldn’t believe he could have missed something that Lassiter caught.

“There are tests we can do, we don’t normally perform them, but--“

“Do them,” Lassiter ordered before standing up. He gritted his teeth to keep the pain from his face.


	4. The Golden Parrot

Shawn was hovering around O’Hara’s and Lassiter’s desks. To the unobservant eye, Shawn seemed to be wrapped in conversation with O’Hara, but every now and then he snuck a look in Lassiter’s direction. 

The head detective had settled himself at his desk and hadn’t moved from the spot, ever since they got back from the crime scene. Even when the lunch hour rolled around, Lassiter remained rooted to the spot, his eyes glued on whatever file he was currently reviewing.  
Finally, around four in the afternoon, Shawn sauntered over to Lassiter’s desk. He made sure to approach the detective from a clear angle, so to avoid startling him again. 

“Can I help you, Spencer?” Lassiter asked gruffly, not looking up from yet another file. 

“Why did you think she might be pregnant?” 

“Just a hunch.” Lassiter absently fidgeted under his desk. 

“You don’t go off hunches,” Shawn said, picking up a ceramic paper weight with no real discernible shape and playing with it. 

“Well maybe this time I do,” Lassiter growled. “Now shoo.” 

Shawn put the paper weight down and began walking away. While he was in the hallway he turned back around and said, “Want to car pool tonight?”

“What?” Lassiter raised an eyebrow.

“For dinner, duh?” Shawn said as if it was obvious. “Jules invited us.”

Lassiter threw a scathing look at O’Hara. She raised her hands up, looking indignant. “I did not.”

“Well, you should have, shame on you,” Shawn chided her. “Anyway, see you at the Golden Parrot at seven.” With that, he scampered out the exit. 

Despite his best efforts, Lassiter wasn’t able to get out of dinner. All his excuses were utterly discredited by O’Hara, until he had nothing left. 

Lassiter didn’t understand why they couldn’t have just gone somewhere else for dinner but O’Hara was unyielding. She said that reservations were near impossible to get at Santa Barbara’s premier restaurants. It could be weeks until they had another opening. 

“How did you get a table?” Lassiter asked.

“Excuse me?” 

“How did you get a table?” Lassiter repeated. “If it’s as hard to get a reservation as you say, especially since this dinner is supposed to be spur of the moment.” 

To Lassiter’s horror, O’Hara was blushing. 

“O’Hara, what is it?” He needled. 

She waved a hand at Lassiter dismissively. “I had a date. They concealed. I guess they figured dating a detective wasn’t worth the hassle.” She shrugged.

“Well, he’s an idiot.”

O’Hara beamed.

The Golden Parrot was a weird fusion restaurant that couldn’t quite make up its mind if it was Thai, Japanese, Chinese, or Korean, or all or none of the above.

In the entrance there stood a pale yellow water fountain, spurting water from a brass carp’s mouth. Real bamboo grew at its base. There were long blue and green scrolls hanging from red pillars embroidered with the animals of the Chinese Zodiac. Small jade Buddhas and dragons filled every little nook and cranny in the restaurant. 

Lassiter was enjoying soaking up the atmosphere till he spotted Shawn and Gus at a table with two empty seats. 

“Lassie, Jules!” Shawn exclaimed joyfully. “Join us, won’t you?” 

Gus was already chowing down on some appetizers and only inclined his head as a greeting. 

Lassiter reluctantly sat down in the empty seat, between O’Hara and Gus.

O’Hara beamed at them all. “No need to look at the menus, gentlemen. I called ahead. We are getting the full spread.” 

Gus and Shawn clapped their hands with excitement but Lassiter only felt a fresh wave of nausea. 

Soon plates stacked high with chicken fried rice, shrimp tempura, salmon sushi, donburi, along with many other dishes Lassiter could not name or remember, filled the table.   
O’Hara piled dish after dish upon Lassiter’s plate. So not to instill worry, he tried to feign enthusiasm and gratitude for every exotic dish placed before him but with every nibble his body seemed to be in revolt. Every piece of food that he forced down his throat felt like a kick in the guts. It became so unbearable that Lassiter began to shovel his food onto Gus’s plate whenever his head was turned. Lassiter assumed that either Gus didn’t notice or was a willing accomplice in his scheme since Gus never drew attention to it. 

When all the plates were mostly empty and everyone at the dinner table was looking satisfied and sleepy, Shawn turned to O’Hara with half open eyes. “Thank you, Jules. That was amazing.”

“Delicious,” Gus agreed, patting his stomach.

“Thank you, O’Hara,” Lassiter said, smiling at her. 

O’Hara took a sip of water before saying, “You’re welcome.”

“Not that we don’t appreciate this wonderful dinner, but are we celebrating something?” Gus asked, patting his stomach again.

“Well, as you know, this began as a dinner for only Carlton and me—“

“What?’ Gus sat up straight. “Shawn, you said we were invited!” 

“But since I had you all here together, I figured I might as well take the opportunity to celebrate my one year anniversary of joining the SBPD with the people I care most about!”

Lassiter suddenly stood up. He looked visibly unnerved. “Please excuse me for a moment,” he said before moving swiftly towards the exit.

All three of them watched Lassiter go with puzzled expressions on their faces. 

“I’m sure he’ll be right back,” Gus said reassuringly. “I think such deep sentiment makes him uncomfortable.” 

O’Hara took another sip of her water, clearly unsure how to feel about Carlton’s abrupt flight.

“I’m just going to go check on him,” Shawn said, standing up and following Lassiter’s path out of the restaurant.

As soon as Lassiter was clear of the Golden Parrot, he began to run. He could feel this body protesting at the jarring movement but he didn’t want to be sick where anyone--God forbid Gus, Shawn, or especially O’Hara—could see him. He ran five or six blocks before spiriting down an alley and retching. 

If it hurt going down, it hurt twice as much coming back up. There was a dazzling level of agony that he had never experienced before. 

After the entire contents of his stomach had been dispelled onto the pavement, Lassiter was able to straighten from his doubled over position. He breathed in deep ragged breaths, trying to make the pain subside. He wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. 

When his breath became even and the pain less severe, he started back towards the Golden Parrot on shaky legs. Halfway back, Lassiter remembered the pills in the inside pocket of his jacket. He quickly unscrewed the cap and swallowed them like candy. Lassiter had just recapped the pill bottle and stuck it back in his jacket pocket when Shawn tore around the corner.

“Lassie, where did you go?” Shawn demanded. 

“I just needed some fresh air,” he said gruffly. 

“You’ve been gone for, like, twenty minutes.” 

Lassiter shook his watch free from his sleeve. He realized with a stab of humility that this action was frivolous because he had no idea when he had left the restaurant. “You’re exaggerating, Spencer.”

“No Lassie, I’m not. Juliet is really worried. She and Gus are back at the Golden Parrot waiting for us.”

“Oh,” was all Lassiter could manage to say as he followed Shawn.

As they walked, Shawn’s anger seemed to ebb away and he softened. “Lassiter, is something wrong?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You seem a bit off, I mean more off than usual,” Shawn announced without turning around. 

“I’m fine,” Lassiter answered. He rolled his eyes at Spencer’s choice with words.

“How did your meeting with your ex-wife go?” Shawn asked off-handedly.

Lassiter froze in his tracks. “How did you know?” He shook his head. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter,” Lassiter snapped fiercely. “It’s none of your business.” 

Shawn sighed. “You’re right.” He paused before saying, “I’m sorry it didn’t go the way you wanted it to.”

Lassiter felt a flare of white hot rage spark inside him but it cooled just as quickly as it had appeared. “Me too,” he said somberly.


	5. A shot through the heart and you're too late

O’Hara drove him home. She didn’t inquire what had happened and Lassiter didn’t offer any explanation. 

She hadn’t seemed mad about his abrupt exit during her impromptu speech, only thoughtful. 

Fifteen minutes later, they were in front of his apartment complex. 

“Thanks again for dinner,” Lassiter told her before getting out of her green bug. 

“Anytime, Carlton.” She smiled warmly. “Pick you up tomorrow morning?” 

“Sure, thanks.” Lassiter smiled too. 

After Lassiter was in his apartment, he took another couple of pills because the effects of the ones he took earlier already seemed to be wearing off. 

Lassiter sipped some Ginger Ale from a can and nibbled on some saltines. He rubbed a hand over his haggard face. God, he hadn’t felt this tired in a long, long time. 

He pulled out a photo from his jacket pocket. A professional photographer had been snapping photos of the restaurant’s guests and tried to sell them for an absurd amount of money. Before they knew the cost, they had all posed and let the man take their photo. However, once they had discovered the amount they all readily declined to pay, except Lassiter, who had secretly found the photographer later and bought a single print.  
It really was a good picture of them all. With a gleam of surprise, even he appeared genuinely happy. He stuck it in a picture frame and wrapped it in some old newspaper he had laying around the house. He didn’t think O’Hara would mind the crud wrapping when he gave it to her tomorrow.  
####  
Lassiter awoke to a loud banging on his front door. He sat up with a start and immediately felt a twist of pain in his abdominal area. 

“Carlton?” It was O’Hara. 

Bright light flooded through the windows as Lassiter realized he had fallen asleep on the couch still fully dressed in the suit he had been wearing yesterday. 

“Damn,” he growled under his breath. 

“Carlton, are you all right?” O’Hara shouted through the oak front door.

“Yeah, just be a minute,” Lassiter shouted back as he moved as quickly as the pain in his stomach would allow. First, he tore off his old suit and replaced it with a fresh one because she would notice if he opened the door still wearing the suit he went to dinner in. Next, a quick stop in the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair. Lassiter only paused long enough to snatch the wrapped frame before opening his door. 

“Good morning,” O’Hara said by way of greeting.

“Morning,” Lassiter returned, but reserved judgement on whether it happened to be good or bad yet. 

“Have you had breakfast yet?” she asked. 

Lassiter had learned his lesson yesterday. Admitting he hadn’t would prompt O’Hara to stop for something in on the way to work and he didn’t want her to do that. “Wheaties,” he said. 

“Ah, the Breakfast of Champions,” she smiled. 

Before they got into the car, Lassiter handed O’Hara the wrapped frame and waited for her to open it. 

“What’s this?” she asked. 

Lassiter shrugged. “It’s an anniversary gift.”

O’Hara’s eyes teared up.  
#####  
Shawn, Gus, O’Hara and Lassiter stood in the morgue over the young women’s body, who was covered neck down by a crisp hospital sheet.

Woody was finishing his breakfast of eggs and hash. 

Lassiter could feel his stomach flip as he got a strong whiff of the eggs. 

“Any day, Strode,” Lassiter all but shouted, prompting Woody to put his plate down at the feet of the deceased. 

“Sorry Detective, it’s the most important meal of the day.” Woody gave one of his goon-ish grins. “Did you want a bite?” Woody scanned Lassiter from head to toe. “You’re looking a bit peaky.” 

“No,” Lassiter sneered. “What do you got for us?”

“I wouldn’t mind a bite,” Shawn volunteered. 

Gus clicked his tongue in disapproval. Shawn ignored him.

“Help yourself,” Woody said, handing over the plate. 

O’Hara rolled her eyes. 

“Shawn is right,” Woody began. “The abrasion on her back was not the cause of death. This inch size burn over the heart is. You see whatever it was punctured her heart, killing her and cauterizing the wound all at the same time. It’s really quite fascinating.” Woody seemed lost in a dream world of a moment. 

“Do you have any idea what could have caused it?’ O’Hara asked. 

Woody came back to reality, and said with a lopsided grin, “No, no idea.” Woody’s eyes snapped to Lassiter again. “And Detective Lassiter was right about the other thing.”

“She was pregnant?” Shawn asked with disbelief.

“Yup,” Woody affirmed. “It was lucky the Detective asked for those test or we might never have known. Those types of test aren’t routine.” 

“That’s so sad,” O’Hara whispered under her breath. 

Shawn put the plate of food down, clearly having lost his appetite.

“Did she know?” Shawn asked.

“Possibly,” Woody scratched his head. “It was pretty early on in the pregnancy. There would have been signs but unless she was paying attention they could have easily been ignored.” 

Shawn turned to Lassiter with disbelief etched into every line of his face. “How did you know?” 

It did not escape Lassiter’s notice the thick emphasis that Spencer laid upon the word ‘you.’


	6. Jane Doe no more

Lassiter’s stomach pitched and roll as if he was standing on the deck of a ship during a rough storm. He searched his suit pockets in vain for the bottle of pain pills and anti-acid medicine. With a biting realization, he remembered he had left them in the pocket of the jacket he was wearing last night. He could kick himself. How was it that he remembered to grab O’Hara’s gift but not his medication? 

He briefly considered calling a taxi to take him back to his apartment to retrieve the pills but the implications were too great. Surly people would notice his absence. O’Hara certainly would and if by some miracle she didn’t 

Spencer would point it out. No, there was only a few more hours left in the work day. He would have endure in order to stave off suspicion.  
Shawn was hoovering again. Lassiter prayed the man would stay away until the work day had finished so he could slip out without being harassed. Besides, Spencer had the uncanny ability to know things other people didn’t. Even Lassiter had to admit it was a useful talent in most circumstances but in this scenario it spelled doom for Lassiter and his plan to keep his condition under wraps.

Lassiter tried not to stare at the digital cloak on his computer screen. Three hours, two hours, one hour. Lassiter’s stomach was in knots. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Spencer making his slow approach towards his desk. For a fleeting moment, Lassiter contemplated getting up and heading to the records room, break room, or even the restroom to avoid him. But Lassiter didn’t have to move a muscle McNabb hurried to Lassiter and announced loudly, “We have an I.D. on your Jane Doe.”  
Lassiter had been clear that this was the victim’s identity was a priority but to have an I.D. this quickly was almost unheard of. 

“Good work,” Lassiter praised McNabb as he took the file.

McNabb gushed at the unexpected praise. “Jane Doe is Rachel Owns.”

“That was quick,” O’Hara joining the others around Lassiter’s desk.

“One of Woody’s interns recognized her from a tabloid and Woody ran with it.” McNabb shrugged, “We got lucky.” 

“That’s why her face so familiar.” O’Hara said under her breath. 

Everyone around the desk looked at O’Hara. 

“I admit it, I subscribe to gossip magazines,” O’Hara said blushing. “It’s my one guilty pleasure.”

“I don’t know Jules,” Shawn said as he and Gus appeared at McNabb’s side. “Sounds unhealthy to me.”

“It’s better than having an obsession with Leo DiCaprio.” 

“Leo is an American treasure.” Shawn said as though he had just been personally insulted. 

“Then why hasn’t he won an Oscar?” McNabb pointed out. 

“Because the academy is clearly fixed!” Shawn said rising his voice. “He is robbed every time. Every year!”  
Gus nodded fervently in agreement. 

“Children please!” Lassiter pounded his fist against the wood of his desk trying to get everyone to remember why they were there. “Rachel Owens.”  
Gus cleared his throat and began speaking, “The Owns’ own half of Santa Barbara, Shawn. We’re talking banks, restaurants, car dealerships, you name it. ” Gus said in a superior tone of voice. “Rachel Owns was Santa Barbara’s premier socialite with a trust fund with too many zeros to count.” 

“That’s right,” O’Hara agreed. “That families richer than God.” 

“But that couldn’t be the same Rachel Owns.” Shawn said unconvinced. He scrunched up his nose. “She was dressed like a hobo.” 

Lassiter asked McNabb, “Are we absolutely sure it’s her?”

“Yes sir.” 

“Come on O’Hara, let’s go pay a visit to the Owns’ family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this before Leo won is Oscar.


	7. Meet the family

If Lassiter thought his nausea was bad before it was nothing to how it was now. The blurred pictures that raced by the car windows caused his stomach to practically pulsate with waves of misery. Lassiter screwed his eyes shut. There was some relief to be found in shutting out the spiriting pictures. 

Yet, when Lassiter had closed his eyes against the world he found he was reluctant to open them again; not because of the overwhelming nausea the movement the car caused in him but because he was simply exhausted. It was the same exhaustion that had caused him to fall asleep on his couch fully dressed instead of in his bed and in his PJs. He tried to resist sleep’s pull but it proved irresistible. Lassiter fell into a dreamless sleep. The next thing he remembered was O’Hara gently shaking him awake. They were parked in a cobble stone driveway. The path led up to an impressive house in a south west style not uncommon to Santa Barbara homes. This home, however, was three stories tall and could probably fit two regular homes within its walls.

“Carlton you fell asleep,” O’Hara said appearing puzzled and a touch concerned. 

Lassiter said nothing in response. 

“Are you feeling okay?” O’Hara reached out a hand toward his forehead to feel for an elevated temperature. 

Lassiter flinched and pulled away. “I’m fine.” He snarled. 

“Are you though?” O’Hara pressed, unwilling to back down.

“I am,” Lassiter said a little more gently. “I am fine, I promise.” 

O’Hara wasn’t convinced. She opened her mouth to argue further but Lassiter cut her off.

“Are we going to talk to the Owens or sit here all night?” 

O’Hara reluctantly agreed and followed Lassiter up the cobble stone path, through an expansive garden, a short stone staircase, and finally to large oak front doors.   
Lassiter rung the door bell and waited for an answer. 

Sooner than he expected the door opened to reveal a man, in his late twenties dressed in an expensive tuxedo, standing before him. He had a delicate bone structure, an even bronze tan, and manicured eyebrows. His platinum blonde hair had been rigidly styled with a gel that gave off a faint scent of coconut. 

“Good evening,” Lassiter began, “Is this the residence Mr. and Mrs. Owns home? This is Dect-” 

“My mother and father?” The young man interrupted with a superior tone of voice that would usually had Lassiter seeing red and spiting fire if he had his usual level of energy. But Lassiter didn’t have his usual level of energy. 

All Lassiter managed to say was, “As you like it,” with a sarcastic sneer.

Lassiter eye balled the young man. Now he could see it. The striking resemblance to Rachel. They both had very similar features, almost the exact same noises. 

The young man eyed Lassiter back. “My parents have already made their annual donation to their various charities for this year.” 

“We aren’t here to collect from any charities,” Lassiter shot back.

The man looked thoroughly bored. “Well then, why are you here?” 

O’Hara stepped in, “Can you please tell them we need to talk to them? It concerns Rachel Owens.” 

The bored expression plastered on the young man’s face changed to one of intense concern. “You have news about Rachel? Please come in.” He insisted. 

O’Hara and Lassiter exchanged pointed looks before crossed the threshold. 

“Please excuse by earlier rudeness. You won’t believe how many people come to our door asking for handouts.” He implored for their forgiveness.   
“That’s alright Mister…” O’Hara said holding out her hand to shake his. 

“Oh excuse me again. I’m Brandon Owns.” He took O’Hara’s hand and shook it readily. “And you are Detectives?”

“Detective O’Hara,” Lassiter said signaling to Juliet, “And I am Detective Lassiter.” 

O’Hara and Lassiter where a little taken aback by the man’s sudden shift from blatant hostility to one of polite accommodation.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” O’Hara began, “why are you answering your own door? It just seems like in a place this and your family being who they are, you would someone to do it for you.”   
“You’re quite right.” Brandon agreed. “But you see the staff had the week off. My parents and I were in Kentucky for the race. Our horse, Fairy Light-“

O’Hara laughed but quickly turned it into a laugh. 

Brandon took notice, “I know a horrid name. My mother chose it. Anyway, Fairy Light, lost on a grand scale. Needless to say we didn’t feel in the celebratory mood. So we returned back a day early. The help will be back to work tomorrow.” 

“And your parents?” O’Hara asked. 

“Oh yes, this way.” 

Lassiter and O’Hara followed Brandon into the next room. Lassiter supposed it was what the absurdly rich called a drawing room. 

A sleek black piano rested in the corner. In the middle of the room there were two stretched white couches facing parallel to one another and underneath it all a brilliant red rug that clashed horribly with the black and white deco of the rest of the room. ‘An ill-fated attempt at fangshi?’ Lassiter thought. 

Mister and Missus Owns looked like a typical older rich couple. They both wore designer labels and were sipping on fifty year old scot like it was as common and unexciting as a Coke Cola. Mrs. Owns had had work done to her face among other places in a vain attempt to cling to her fading youth. Mr. Owns was plump and well-tanned from too much caviar and spending countless afternoons at the country club playing golf. 

O’Hara and Lassiter broke the news to the Owns’ as delicately as they could. The Owns’ reaction, like their appearance, had been typical. Mrs. Owns fell into Mr. Owns’ arms a cried. Mr. Owns tried to comfort his wife while drilling the Detectives for answers. Brandon had become near catatonic as he stared blankly at a spot on their Persian rug.

This had always been Lassiter’s least favorite part of his job. He hated seeing people’s hearts breaking by the news that their loved ones had been taken away. He hated the tears or worse the hopeless dark emptiness filling their eyes. 

The Owns’ were unable to offer any information that would further the investigation. They had been clueless to why Rachel was found in the clothes she had been wearing or why she was found on a stretch of deserted road. They didn’t know where she was with or had been for the last week. Lassiter and O’Hara learned that Rachel was notorious for spontaneity and considered a poor communicator even by her family. 

A half an hour later, the sun had finally set leaving O’Hara and Lassiter to find their way back to the car in the dark. 

“I need a drink.” O’Hara sighed. “I’ll buy the first round?” 

Lassiter was sitting in the passenger’s seat biting on his thumb nail. 

“Carlton?” O’Hara asked staring at him.

“Do you think she had a boyfriend?” Lassiter asked without looking at her.

“Probably considering she was pregnant.”

“When we told the Owns she was pregnant at the time of her death, none of them seemed surprised, yet all of them stated that they had no knowledge of a romantic interest of any kind.”   
O’Hara speculated upon the conversation. “You’re absolutely right. That doesn’t add up. Do you think they already knew she was pregnant before now? Maybe she told them she was pregnant but refused to tell them who the father was?”

“Could be,” Lassiter had to agree to that as a definite possibility. “But there is something else that’s bothering me. Did they’re reaction seem too, I don’t know…”

Lassiter had deliver the bad news more times than he really cared to remember, the reactions to said bad news had never been radically different from one to the next but there was always slight degrees of variation to them, enough so to allow Lassiter to keep them separate from one another. Usually there was some element of the unexpected about the instances. Sometimes someone would break something, sob uncontrollably, faint, or once cram their fingers into their ears a hum loudly. Hell, people had even throw a punch at Lassiter once or twice for being simply being the massager. Yet, something about the Owns’ reaction was too contained, too structured. They had all reacted in the way Lassiter would have expected from Mrs. Owns’ crocodile tears, Mr. Owns’ demands for action, to Brandon’s melt down. The more Lassiter thought about it the more it felt like a scene from a made for TV movie.

“Scripted?” Lassiter O’Hara pondered this but was hesitant to come to the same conclusion. “Everyone reacts different.”

“Brandon’s did 180 attitude adjustment, but only after we told him we had information about Rachel…” Lassiter said more to himself than O’Hara. 

“What are you thinking?” O’Hara asked putting her car into reverse.

“I think they know more than their letting on, saying more beyond that would be mere speculation.” Lassiter said resting the back of his head against the head rest and closing his eyes again.


	8. A secret assignment

The next morning, while waiting for Lassiter, O’Hara curiosity made her leave the comfort of her air-conditioned car and inspect the tires of Lassiter’s Crown Vick. The left rear tires was flat just as Lassiter had said. Upon closer examination, she noticed that the punctures were from a blade. Slashes might be a better description due to the size, shape, and location of the cuts in the rubber were made by a blade. These slashes were not in the tread but on the soft sides of the tire near the rims. As O’Hara studied the slash, she came to the realization that there was no way that they had been caused accidentally. 

O’Hara considered, with a chill, that someone had deliberately caused this kind of damage to Lassiter’s car, possibly as a warning? A threat? Was this why Carlton had been acting so strangely lately? Could this tire slasher be bringing on Lassiter’s loss of appetite? Provoking enough stress that her partner was losing nightly sleep, and was so exhausted on duty that he was falling asleep on the way to delivering the news that someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, had been murdered? 

O’Hara’s chill was quickly replaced by white hot anger. She made a silent vow to bring this person—or people—to justice on Lassiter’s behalf. 

O’Hara saw Lassiter exiting his apartment and heading towards her car. Her first instinct was to confront him and demand answers but the voice of reason poked holes in the plan. Carlton Lassiter was a deeply private man; accosting him for keeping secrets and then drilling him for answers was the quickest way to ensure his silence. No, O’Hara decided, the best way to go about getting Lassiter to admit he needed help was with tact and delicacy. 

She met Lassiter at her car with a smile firmly locked into place. 

“Morning, O’Hara,” Lassiter greeted, climbing into the passenger’s seat. 

“I had a private phone call,” O’Hara spluttered.

Lassiter raised his eyebrows, “I didn’t ask.”

As they drove toward work, O’Hara stopped at a local café and ordered two large iced coffees. She handed one to Lassiter. 

“I love the anniversary gift you gave me,” O’Hara said warmly. “It’s hanging on my living room wall.”

Lassiter smiled. He could be a man of few words. 

“Don’t you like iced coffee?” Juliet couldn’t help but ask. Sure, she may have never seen him drink anything but hot coffee. . . “I should have asked before ordering you one. I just figured, since it was so humid today. . .” 

“No, it’s fine.” As if to prove it, he took a long drink from the straw.

O’Hara pulled into her usual parking spot and the SBPD. She put the car into park but paused before switching off the engine. “Carlton, we’ve been partners for a years now. You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Lassiter was stared at her, clearly taken aback by the seriousness of her tone. “I know,” he agreed. 

A few more moments stretched on with neither saying a word. Finally, Lassiter sighed heavily. Sensing he was about to open up about topics he had so far kept secret, O’Hara rotated in her seat to give her full attention at her partner, but was disappointed when Shawn’s sudden appearance at her window caused Lassiter to snap his jaw shut and adopt an expression of annoyance. 

“Hey, Jules,” Shawn beamed. “What’s up Lassie?”

O’Hara directed a scowl in Shawn’s direction for his interruption. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Shawn asked sheepishly, noticing O’Hara’s scowl. 

“Give us a minute,” O’Hara said, her frustration giving her voice a sharp edge.

Undoubtedly deducing the importance of what he had just interrupted from threatening inflection of Juliet’s voice, Shawn did what she requested without delay. He turned around and briskly walked into the station. 

“Carlton, were you about to tell me something?” O’Hara asked hopefully.

Despite Shawn’s quickness to remove himself from whatever he had unwittingly disrupted, the moment was over. Whatever spell Lassiter had been under had broken, his defenses back up.  
“No,” Lassiter shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

He got out of the car without another word, heading in mere seconds after Shawn.

O’Hara cursed silently under her breath before switching off the engine to her car and also walking into the station.  
#####

Lassiter stared down at his desk calendar. Three more days, including today, before he got the results from his blood test. He faced an internal struggle, a battle where he desperately wanted to side with his natural enemy, optimism. Still, he could feel the pessimism destroying his precious hope faster than the optimism could hide it away. 

He ran a hand through his hair. Lassiter had never seriously considered the relativity of time before, but now it seemed like the most important thing on earth. Three days . . . three sunrises, three sunsets until he knew his fate. 

The best way to distract himself was to get back to the case. He picked up Rachel Owns’ file, a standard driver’s license picture clipped to its front. He noted her expressionless mouth, her soft blonde hair framing her face. She could be any other girl, any other victim, really, except for those sharp green eyes, which seemed to beseech to him. He became lost in those green eyes. She could be any other victim, but he saw her just before she died. Her eyes ore into him. 

Yes, he knew it, blinking and looking away from her frozen face. There was a whole file of untapped information a hop, jump, and skip away, in a filing cabinet at the free clinic. His conscience made him feel guilty for not simply revealing the truth and procuring the files that way. It would be a whole lot easier. 

Lassiter stomach flipped, not from pain or nausea, but from plain old nerves. If he told the truth about his illness, there would be no going back. Best case scenario, reprimanded and assigned to desk duty. Worst case scenario, he would be reprimanded and then suspended. Either option was highly undesirable to Lassiter. 

For a minute, he allowed himself to give in to his worst fears; that he did have cancer, that it had progressed too far for a cure to be likely, that this was the end. But if it was the end, wouldn’t to be better to finish what he had started? To see this last, final case, to the very end or until his body quit on him, whatever came first?  
Lassiter fortified his resolve. He would stay the course he had chosen. 

Lassiter’s brain went into overdrive. How was he going to lead someone to the information without outing himself?

A quick search brought him an answer. “McNab!” Lassiter called from his desk.

McNab put down his coffee mug, hurried to Lassiter’s desk, and stood at attention. “Yes, sir?”

“I need you to look into something for me,” Lassiter said very quietly.

“What, sir?” McNab leaned over Lassiter’s desk to better hear the Head Detective’s hushed tone. 

“Rachel Owns’ was pregnant.” 

McNab nodded to indicate that he aware of this fact. 

“But when we called her usual practitioner, she had no knowledge of this.” Lassiter raised his eyebrows, “Do you see what I am saying?”

“Not really, sir.” McNab admitted. 

“It’s most likely that if Rachel knew she was pregnant, or even suspected the possibility and wanted to keep it a secret, she might have sought out a doctor that wouldn’t recognize her, that wouldn’t ask for proper identification or proof of insurance.”

“Like a free clinic.” 

“Exactly,” Lassiter said, relieved that McNab had caught on. 

McNab beamed. 

“I want you to go to the free clinics and start flashing around Rachel’s picture. See if anyone remembers her dropping recently.” Lassiter pulled out a map from his top desk draw. “Start in the downtown area.”

“Why there?” McNab questioned, studying the area Lassiter had indicated with his finger. “That is at least twenty miles from where her body was found. Why not this clinic?” He pointed to a building on the outskirts of town, closer to where Rachel had been found.

“Think, McNab,” Lassiter intoned, tapping his forehead with a finger. “If you wanted to blend in, would you chose a clinic were you’re bound to be remembered at simply because there are fewer patients or would you chose the clinic that you would assume would be crowded because of its location in the heart of down town Santa Barbara?” Lassiter pointed at the location on the map he had indicated earlier. “This clinic might explain her unusual choice in clothes. Maybe she wanted to blend so completely that she went to extremes to look like she belonged there? It is their ‘usual type of patient’,” Lassiter finished, borrowing a phrase from Dr. Tolbert. 

McNab mulled this over before agreeing. “That would explain it.” He leaned even closer to Lassiter. “Is this a secret assignment?”

“What?” Lassiter raised in eyebrows in confusion.

"Oh,” McNab murmured with a note of sadness in his voice. “I just thought because we were whispering that you didn’t want anybody else to know.”

With a sudden sense of amusement, Lassiter realized that McNab was actually disappointed that it wasn’t a secret. Lassiter’s amusement led to shining moment of genius. He could use this to his advantage. Why couldn’t it be a secret mission? It would ensure McNab’s discretion. He would report directly to Lassiter, which would give Lassiter time to figure out the best way to proceed. 

“I’m glad you understand,” Lassiter remarked, suppressing a grin. “Don’t tell anyone, not O’Hara, and especially not Spencer. Report what you find only to me. Got it?’  
McNab nodded vigorously. He strode out of the police station with his chest puffed out due to the inflated sense of ego at being personally chosen as Detective Lassiter’s confidant.


	9. A secret assignment (Shawn addition)

O’Hara was standing near the coffee bar holding her mug, intently watching McNab and Lassiter conversing in hushed whispers. 

“Jules?” Shawn asked, placing a hand on her arm. She jumped and nearly spilled her coffee all over her pantsuit. “What are you doing?” 

“Shawn!” O’Hara hissed, exasperated. 

“Everyone is so jumpy lately,” Shawn huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Since when have those two become buddy-buddy?”

“I don’t know,” O’Hara said, her brow furrowed. “Speaking of buddies, where is yours?”

“He’s at a meeting,” Shawn said sadly.

“Jules, what is it?” 

O’Hara sighed, “Okay, but if I tell you, you have to promise to keep it to yourself.”

“Can I tell Gus?”

“No,” O’Hara said firmly. “I’m worried about Carlton. Something is wrong with him. I think he might be hiding something. He actually fell asleep while I was driving to the Owns’. He barely eats—"

“Wait, he let you drive?” Shawn interrupted her.

“Yeah, he’s been letting me drive since his car has been out of commission, but get this: this morning I found one of his tires slashed.

“You think someone might be threatening him?” 

“I don’t know,” O’Hara admitted, looking Shawn full in the face. “I think he’s scared and that terrifies me. I mean, who could be bad enough to scare Carlton?” 

Shawn had been ready to point out that Lassiter’s divorce had just been finalized and he was probably just suffering some emotional turmoil, until she mentioned the slashed tires. 

Shawn turned away from Jules and glanced over at Lassie. Buzz had gone and Lassie was back to the prevailing practice of flipping through files. From Shawn’s brief but thorough study of Lassiter’s person, he had to agree with Jules, something was definitely amiss. 

Lassiter looked more gaunt than usual. His complexion was gray, his eyes red from fatigue. His usual appearance, which he took great personal pride in, had become lack. His tie was wrinkled and his hair was dull; nothing about his appearance lately, Shawn realized, was befitting of the Head Detective title. In any other man theses lapses could be ignored but for Carlton Lassiter they became a siren of warning. 

“You want me to call upon the spirits?” Shawn asked, putting his hand to his temple. 

“No,” O’Hara pulled his hand away from his head. Then she paused, considering, “Well maybe. . .” She watched Lassiter from across the room. “But be subtle, and be careful. Come to me if you find anything. Promise?” 

“Cross my heart,” Shawn drew an ‘x’ over his chest, “hope to die.”  
######

“The lab monkeys were able to crack Rachel’s iPhone and social media pages within an hour.” 

“Oh?” O’Hara deduced, “did she use the same password for everything?” 

“Yup.” Lassiter nodded

They had printed out all the information from the last six month, bound it with large alligator clips, and left it on Lassiter’s desk. 

The stack of paper was impressive to say the least, but that was to be expected, O’Hara thought. Rachel Owns had been Santa Barbara’s ‘It’ girl. 

Upon further inspection, Lassiter discovered that Rachel’s use of her social media accounts had tapered off exactly a week before her death. Her posts, which had been in the thousands daily, had fallen to single digits to near radio silence in the span of seven days. 

Lassiter and O’Hara divided up the pile and went at it. Lassiter’s main focus was upon recurring names, more specifically the possible identity of the father of her unborn child. 

After a few hours and several Highlighter, Lassiter was finished with his stack of papers. There had been several dozen male names mentioned, but the two names that popped up with the most regularity were Dale Harrison and Todd Lancaster. 

Lassiter thumbed through the papers and began marking every phone conversation, text, and email shared between Rachel Owens and the two men.   
Rachel’s changeable temperament was shining through the pages, her attentions shifted between the two so quickly, Lassiter had whiplash. One week she would be pining for Dale, the week after, she only had eyes for Todd. 

“O’Hara, do your pages mention a Todd Lancaster or Dale Harrison?” 

“Yes,” O’Hara said, laying down her pages. “I feel like I just read their biographies. There were a few details I could have gone without. . .” 

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” 

“That one of these guys is the father,” O’Hara added, “and potential killer?” 

“My thoughts exactly.” 

“There is also a Sue Thompson, “O’Hara said glancing down at her notes. “From the information it looks like they were close. Who do we want to talk to first?” O’Hara said taking out her keys from the top draw of her desk.


	10. Sue Thompson

Sue Thompson was a little thing. She wore her jet black hair in a fashionable pixie cut, a white Lacoste tennis dress, and a string of pink pearls around her neck. She considered the detectives with the same level of bored disdain Brandon had offered, yet unlike Brandon, her bored disdain did not disappear when she discovered who they were and why they were there. 

“Rachel is dead,” Sue repeated. It wasn’t a question, just an affirmation. 

“You don’t seem surprised?” O’Hara questioned. 

“Why should I be?” Sue said, pouring herself a glass of cucumber water. She didn’t offer them any. She did, however, offer them seats. “Rachel could care less, if you know what I mean.”

“Could you explain?’ O’Hara insisted, taking out her cheap Ballpoint pen to take notes. 

Sue rolled her eyes. “I mean, she was a total adrenaline junkie. Fast cars, drugs, alcohol, unprotected sex, you name it, and she did it.”

“Did Rachel mention any romantic relationships?” Lassiter asked watching Sue twist the pearls in between her fingers. 

Sue turned her attention to Lassiter. “That’s pretty much all she ever talked about. Todd Lancaster, total hunk, and there was someone else. . .” Sue tapped her forehead with one French tipped finger nail, “Something Harrison, Doug . . . no, Dale. . . Dale Harrison. I think he’s some kind of wannabe artist.”

“So Rachel typically dated two people at the same time?”

Sue scoffed. “Two was low number for Rachel. I think she was in a rut.” Sue took another sip of her cucumber water.

“Miss Thompson, did you know that Rachel was pregnant?” Lassiter informed, seeing if he could shock a reaction out of her. He was not disappointed. 

Sue spit water all over the table. “She was what?”

“Pregnant,” Lassiter repeated bluntly. “Do you have any idea who the father might have been?”

“I didn’t know she was pregnant,” Sue sputtered, stunned. 

“You must have an opinion who the father was,” Lassiter pressed. “She must have liked one just a little more than she liked the other.”

“I don’t think Rachel actually liked either of them, not truly. She was using Dale to piss off her parents, and she used Todd for classy social events, like a Prada bag.”

“Like an accessory?” O’Hara asked.

“Well, yeah. He’s the perfect arm candy. See when you’re as rich and as beautiful as Rachel was people don’t mind being used by you. They form lines hoping to get used. Popular by association.” 

Was Lassiter imagining it, or did he detect a hint of bitterness in Sue’s tone? “Did they know they were being used?"

“Sure, and they liked it. If that’s all, I have a tennis lesson to get to.” 

“For now,” Lassiter said, pushing himself up from his chair.

O’Hara followed suit. 

“By the way,” Sue said, giving Lassiter looking him up and down, “can I ask what diet plan you’re on? Because I have been really trying to lose five pounds and--“

Juliet gave Lassiter a side glance and felt queasy. She had noticed Lassiter’s slimmer frame, but to hear someone else, a stranger, point it out, made her extra concern.

“This interview is over. O’Hara, let’s do,” he strode outside with purpose. Juliet close on his heels.


	11. A trip to Buring Man, anyone?

They were back at the station after their interview with Sue Thompson. O’Hara and Lassiter had both agreed to send a couple black and whites for Dale and Todd. Their shared hope was to unnerve the two men to slip up during questioning. 

Lassiter noticed Spencer milling around his desk, yet again, but before he could make a beeline to the file room and avoid Spencer, the fake psychic noticed him too. He beamed and waved enthusiastically. Cursing under his breath, Lassiter decided the best way to get rid of Spencer was to simply see what he wanted. 

Lassiter headed towards his desk. 

“Spencer,” Lassiter growled as he took his seat. 

“Lassie,” Shawn shot back. 

“Do you need something?” 

There was a second of awkwardness as Shawn rocked on the balls of his feet and Lassiter stared up at him. “Actually, now that you mention it, I was wondering if I could borrow you Crown Vick for Burning Man. So what do you say?” 

“Over my dead body,” Lassiter snapped. 

“Please-oh-please, Gus won’t let me take The Blueberry,” Shawn complained.

Rather than engaging, Lassiter chose to ignore Spencer and look over Rachel’s file one more time before either Dale or Todd arrived. 

“Is that because your tires were slashed?” 

Lassiter’s head snapped up to meet Shawn’s stare. “What did you say?” 

“Slashed,” Shawn repeated slowly. 

“Who told you that?” Lassiter demanded. 

Shawn put his hand up to his temple in way of an answer. 

“Whomever told you that is wrong. I ran over a nail or parked on glass or something.” 

“Come on, dude, the spirits are coming in loud and clear on this,” Shawn countered. 

Lassiter shot out of his seat and glared daggers at Shawn, practically radiating with anger. Shawn recoiled. “You’re information is wrong.” He then lowered his voice, acutely aware that he was drawing curious glances from the surrounding officers, before jabbing Shawn in the chest hard with a finger. “Look, Spencer, keep your nose out of my business or you may lose it.”

Lassiter stormed off down the hall. 

Shawn recovered in time to yell at Lassiter’s back, “But my nose is one of my best feature!” 

O’Hara, who had been out of earshot but had seen the whole incident from the safety of the water cooler, rushed up to Shawn. “What was that all about?” 

“I was investigating, like you wanted me to,” Shawn said defensively. 

“I also said to be subtle,” O’Hara said crossly. 

“You have your style, I have mine.” Shawn shrugged. “Besides, now I know you’re right. He is definitely hiding something.” 

“Why do you say that?” O’Hara asked. 

“Because people who have nothing to hide don’t react like that.” 

#####

Lassiter’s brisk walk away from Shawn turned into a jog as soon as Lassiter turned the corner. All of his features lost their thunder as he rushed into the men’s lavatory and quickly turned the deadbolt behind him. He pivoted to the mirror and was immediately, violently sick in the porcelain basin. He retched and then after that, dry-heaved. He felt like the entire contents of his stomach had been emptied and everything in its place felt like razors, broken glass, and other sharp things that proceeded to poke and stab his insides. 

Lassiter gripped the sides of the sink and used them to steady himself against wave upon wave of dizziness. Lassiter paused for a moment with his chin resting against his heaving chest. With head still bowed, he noticed with some surprise the splotches of blood covering the sink, made all the more bright and vivid by the white of the porcelain. There was blood on his hands and corners of his mouth. 

Without pausing to consider what this meant, Lassiter turned the tap until there was a strong jet of water coming from the faucet, grabbed a wad of paper towels and proceeded to scrub the blood away. He worked in a frenzy until all traces were erased. 

When he looked back up at the mirror, his reflection looked back at him shaking and ashen pale. Sweat poured down his face like he had just stepped out of a sauna; but perhaps the most disconcerting of all was the picture of absolute fear staring back at him. 

A loud knock on the bathroom door caused Lassiter to jump. 

“Carlton, Dale Harrison is here. He’s in Interrogation Room One,” O’Hara called through the door. 

Lassiter cleared his throat, “Yeah, I’ll be right there.” He listened for the click of her high heels growing fainter as she moved down the hall before he hurriedly tried to fix his appearance; he smoothed the wrinkles in his shirt, which by some miracle were free from blood stains, and straightened the tie which he just noticed with a twinge of annoyance didn’t match his suit. He took another wad of paper towels and wiped the sweat from his face and ran his trembling fingers through his unruly hair before leaving the restroom.


	12. reuse, reduce, recycle

O’Hara was standing outside the Interrogation Room waiting for him. 

“Are you okay?” O’Hara stopped him before he entered the room. She was looking at his pallid complexion with an expression of deep concern. 

“Yeah,” Lassiter grumbled. He could still taste copper and bail in his mouth. ‘Are you though?’ the small creeping voice in his head chimed in. 

They both entered the room. 

“Mr. Harrison. This is Detective O’Hara and I am Detective Lassiter. We’d like you to answer some questions.” Lassiter took the seat opposite him. Ever since the incident in the bathroom, Lassiter’s legs had felt as wobbly and as uncertain as a newborn foal’s. He didn’t trust them to support him right now.  
O’Hara took the seat next to Lassiter. 

“What this is all about?” Dale demanded. “No one will tell me anything.” 

Dale had flyway brown hair that he had unsuccessfully attempted to tie into a bun at the top of his head. He wore a long-sleeved black denim tee with white buttons. Tattoos were peeking out from under the denim cuffs; probably the start of full length tattoo sleeves. Lassiter hadn’t looked but he suspected that Dale probably had acid washed jeans and a pair of ironic lizard skin cowboy boats on. It was obvious that he was trying to be the quintessential artist from his physical appearance; yet to Lassiter everything about him screamed ‘poser.’ 

“It’s routine,” O'Hara assured him. 

“I have been clean for eight mouths. You can ask my sponsor.” He produced his cell from his back pocket and tried to hand it over to Lassiter. 

“Mr. Harrison, this has to do with Rachel Owens.” 

Dale visibly relaxed, and put his phone away. 

Lassiter thought his was a strange reaction. O’Hara apparently thought so too, and was ready with a question.

“What is her family trying to blame me for this time?” 

“Do you know that Rachel Owns is dead?” she asked. 

“Dead?” Dale went pale as a sheet. “Dead?” he repeated. 

“She was murdered,” Lassiter stated without emotion. He studied Dale’s face intently. “It has been in the news.” 

“I don’t have a TV or computer, besides, I’ve been backpacking in the woods for the last week. I just got back last night, went straight to bed and when I woke up, a cop was on my doorstep saying I had to come in to answer some questions.” Dale sounded dumbfounded, and turned his gaze from Lassiter to O’Hara then back again. 

“You were backpacking. I assume you have someone that can corroborate your story?”  
Lassiter scribbled down notes. 

“It was a solo trip. I work with a lot of raw material. I make sculptures from driftwood and river stones,” Dale said. 

“Of course you do,” Lassiter scoffed. 

“How long have you and Rachel been seeing each other?” O’Hara inquired.

“Off and on for six months,” Dale answered. 

“Where did you two even meet?” O’Hara raised her eyebrows.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dale asked in a voice soaked in anger. 

Lassiter leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his crest, pencil still clutched in his hand. “I mean it’s not like you two ran in the same circles. She was California royalty and you’re. . .” he waved a hand at Dale’s appearance, “and you’re not.”

O’Hara nodded in agreement. 

Dale grimaced. 

“When is the last time you saw Rachel?” Lassiter prodded. 

“I don’t know,” Dale stretched his head, “Three weeks ago. She said she needed a break, to think.”

“To think about what? To think about the two of you? To consider calling it quits?”

“I don’t know.” Dale answered. 

Lassiter uncrossed his arms and leaned very far forward in his chair. He fixed Dale with a piercing stare and asked in a clear voice, “Did you kill Rachel Owens?”

“No, damn it!” Dale slammed his fist against the surface of the table. O’Hara stiffened, ready to restrain Dale if the situation called for it. Lassiter did not react at all. He simply began scribbling in his notepad again. “You have to listen to me. I loved her and she loved me.” 

“That’s not what her friend Sue Thompson seems to think,” O’Hara put forth. 

“Screw Sue, she’s a bitch!” Dale exploded. “Sue has always been jealous of Rachel.” Dale’s face began to tremble, and he grew quiet long enough for Lassiter to look up realize that Dale was holding back tears.  
“You have to listen to me,” he pleaded. “I loved her. She wasn’t how everyone made her out to be. She was kind, sweet, and generous. When she genuinely smiled it was like—like”—he seemed to be searching for an accurate description—“proof God existed.” 

“Sue seems to think she was reckless,” Lassiter commented. 

“She was,” Dale admitted, his gaze locked with Lassiter’s. “She had to go to the edge because that’s the only way she knew how to live.”

“Were you aware that Rachel was pregnant?” Lassiter asked bluntly. 

“What?” Dale couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. He buried his face into his hands. “Was it mine?” he asked through his fingers. 

“That’s what we would like to know,” Lassiter tapped his pencil on the note pad.

Dale raised his head from his hands, tears still pouring from his eyes. He looked like he was about to vomit all over the desk.

“Do you know a Todd Lancaster?” O’Hara asked.

Dale looked at her through watery eyes, “That rich jerk who was always following her around? Why? Do you think he had something to do with Rachel’s death?”


	13. One ring to rule them all

Todd Lancaster was the opposite of Dale in every way, in attitude and style. He wore an expensive business suit, complete with silver cufflinks and soft Italian black leather shoes. He was calm and collected even though he had been unceremoniously brought in by a uniformed officer. He declined the right to have council present. 

“This is about Rachel, I assume?” Todd asked.

“Yes,” O’Hara confirmed.

“It’s a real tragedy,” he said without a hint of irony, but with a trace of sadness in his voice. “I heard about it from Brandon. He called me the same day the family was informed."

“You two were close?”

“Oh yes, extremely. We grew up together. We had gotten closer over the years.”

“You were dating?” Lassiter inquired. 

Todd shrugged. “Rachel didn’t really date. Not in the conventional sense anyway. I guess I was the closest thing she ever had to a long term relationship.”

“So you knew there were others?” Lassiter asked, arching an eyebrow. Lassiter recalled Rachel's social media accounts. It had been obvious that Rachel had been fooling around. 

“There were always others,” Todd laughed humorlessly.

“That didn’t bother you?” O’Hara was surprised.

“Of course it did,” Todd admitted, “but what was I going to do? Rachel was Rachel. The harder you tried to control her the wilder she became."

"What do you mean?" Lassiter pressed. 

Todd looked at Lassiter. "Rachel was a media darling before she could even walk. She practically grew up in front of a camera, because of who her family is. She had been under constant scrutiny, every single act she committed was dissected and judged. She was always expected to be perfect." Todd paused, "I think she just had enough. She was tired of living up to everyone impossibly high expectations, so she started doing the opposite of what people expected. She started rebelling and never stopped."

"But the other men?" O'Hara frowned.

"If you love someone you accept them, right? Despite their flaws.” 

“You seem to be taking the fact that Rachel was a habitual cheater quite well,” Lassiter said pointedly.

Todd shrugged again.“It’s not like this all started recently. Rachel’s been that way since I could remember. She would get bored, venture off, but she would always come back.”

“Were you aware that Miss Owens was pregnant at the time of her death?” Lassiter leaned back in his chair in order to get the whole scope of Lancaster’s reaction.

Todd looked utterly stunned for the briefest of moments before regaining his calm demeanor.

“That’s shocking, but not impossible. As we established earlier, Rachel had been with others.”

“You don’t think it could have been yours?” O’Hara asked. 

“Possibly, but I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell me if it was. We were engaged, there would have been no scandal.” Todd clapped a hand over his mouth as he let the secret slip.

“Engaged?” Lassiter and O’Hara said in unison.

“Damn!” Todd exclaimed. “It was a secret engagement. The media was always hounding us but especially Rachel. We wanted a private wedding so Rachel and I agreed to elope in the Virgin Islands.”

Is that why the Owens’ hadn’t been surprised at the news Rachel was pregnant at the time of her death? Had they simply assumed that Todd was the father as well as being Rachel’s fiance?

“And what if the baby wasn’t yours?” Lassiter brought the subject of conversation back to the baby.

Todd chewed his lip.

“Would you still have married Rachel?”

“I should say yes, I want to say yes, but . . .” Todd’s voice trailed off. “But I don’t think I could. Every time I saw the kid it would be living proof of Rachel’s infidelity. That I loved her enough to stay faithful but that she didn’t love me enough.”

“I thought you didn’t care that Rachel cheated?” O’Hara essentially threw Todd’s earlier words back in his face.

“Call me old fashioned, but marriage is different. I did expect Rachel to be faithful after we were engaged, she knew that.”

“Where were you last Friday between the hours of eight to two A.M.?”

“At home, with Brandon and Sue Thompson. They were there till about midnight.”

That still left a two hour gap in Rachel’s suspected time of death.

Lassiter scribbled that down in his yellow legal pad. “Does the name Dale Harrison mean anything to you?”

Todd scrunched up his nose for a second before being able to connect the name to a face. “He’s that junkie artist. He makes some kind of sculptures out of recycled material. I remember Rachel had a thing for him. Why are you asking about hi-"

Something tugged at the back of Lassiter’s mind, “The ring,” he suddenly blurted out.

“Excuse me?” Todd asked, clearly confused.

O’Hara arched an eyebrow.

“If you were engaged, like you say, where is the ring? There was no ring in her personal effects when we searched her apartment or on her person the night she was murdered.”

“I don’t know,” Todd said.

“You did get her one, didn’t you?” Lassiter tapped his pen impatiently.

“Of course. It was a centered pear-cut 11 carat pink diamond with a hundred stones on each side of the pure silver band.” 

Lassiter whistled, “A ring like that’s got to cost a lot of dough.”

“2.5 million,” Todd was unabashed.

“It also sounds unique,” O’Hara added.

“One of a kind,” Todd answered. “I had it made especially for Rachel.”

Lassiter leaned forward across the table, “So where is it?”

Todd chewed his thumb nail clearly thinking hard, “Did you ask Brandon? Sue? Maybe one of them have it.” He paused, his eyes narrowed. “Dale.”

“Dale?” O’Hara repeated.

“He’s a junkie remember? I know because Rachel told me. Maybe he swiped it.”


	14. Lies and Alibis

“So who do we think it is?” O’Hara turned the key in the ignition, exited the station’s parking lot, and headed towards Lassiter’s apartment. 

Lassiter folded his arms over his chest. “Dale seemed generally shocked when we told him Rachel was pregnant, but so did Todd.” 

“On the whole, Todd seemed more collected, and though it isn’t necessarily an admission of guilt, he did have more time, since apparently he was informed the someday the Owenes were, to process Rachel’s death; while, if we believe Dale’s alibi, he only just found out when we told him.” 

“Speaking of alibis, Todd’s is flimsy too. He said Brandon and Sue were with him until midnight, but that still leaves two hours in which he could have committed the murder.” 

O’Hara stopped at a red light and flipped on her blinker. “Do you think Todd’s secret engagement to Rachel is the reason why the Owenses didn’t seem surprised she was pregnant?” 

“Possibly,” Lassiter grumbled. “That is to say if the Owenses had known about the engagement, but we can’t be sure of that yet.” Lassiter ran his tongue over his inside of his teeth, his mouth still had the sharp metallic taste of blood. “I do think that whoever has the ring is most likely our killer.” 

The light changed and O’Hara eased off the brake. “Why do you think that?” 

“Because she was wearing it at the time of her death.” 

“How do you know that?” O’Hara sounded surprised. 

Lassiter indicated the ring finger of his left hand. “I visited her in the morgue while you were on a coffee break. She had a tan line on her index finger, which means she had been wearing it up until very recently. I also went through the files the IT guys gave us again. There was a Snapchat on Rachel’s iPhone with a time stamped, dated the day of her death. In the picture she was wearing the ring.” 

“You did all that while I was on break?” O’Hara marveled. 

Lassiter merely nodded. 

“Crap, I got to start cutting back on my coffee intake,” O’Hara muttered, more to herself than to Lassiter. “She was probably trying to throw off the paparazzi by wearing it on the wrong finger.” 

They rolled into parking lot of Lassiter’s apartment complex. 

Lassiter thanked O’Hara for the ride. He considered it odd that she waited until he had unlocked his apartment door before driving off but decided to ignore it for the pain twisting his insides. 

Once behind closed doors, Lassiter gave into the agony he had successfully suppressed all day. He crumpled under his own weight. He lay spread-eagle on the floor for a long time, letting the cool tile comfort his feverish skin, before he was able to find the strength to stumble upright and collapse onto the sofa mere inches away. 

Carlton Lassiter could never really be sure if he simply gave into sleep’s embrace or actually lost consciousness from a full on blackout, but either way he did not stir until the first lights of morning flooded through the shutters of his window. 

Lassiter’s eyes felt gummy and his limbs ached as if he had been suffering from the flu. The agony had increased exponentially from the previous night. When he sat up, there was the familiar feeling of knives and glass perforating his abdominal, the pain had become so severe that Lassiter actually yelped and double over. 

Lassiter tried to rethink his plan. How could he honestly hope to investigate this case fully while suffering this level of misery? How could he keep it a secret while the slightest movement produced pins and needles in his belly? Was stepping down the best way to catch Rachel’s killer? While Lassiter was consumed by his contemplating, his ‘Bad Boys’ ringtone startled him. 

He grabbed it off the coffee table and said, “Hello,” through a clenched jaw. 

“Detective Lassiter,” It was McNab. 

“Yes, it’s me,” Lassiter growled, pulling an arm tightly around his stomach. 

“You were right. Rachel was at the free clinic on the night of her death. A Doctor Tolbert made a positive identification.” 

The pain was making it hard to process what McNab was saying, “Excuse me?” 

“Doctor Tolbert identified Rachel. She was there the night she was murdered,” McNab repeated into the phone, speaking much slower than was necessary, hoping to emphasize every syllable. 

“Yes, yes. Why did it take so long?” Lassiter groused back.

“The doctors work on an alternating schedule,” McNab explained. “Doctor Tolbert was on the night shift but switched to the day swift on Wednesday. The free clinic doesn't keep very good records, it took me awhile to track down his contact information.”

“Oh,” Lassiter whispered softly, pushing himself back against the cushion of his sofa. 

“What do you want me to do? Should I bring him in and get his statement?” 

A sudden panic sparked in Lassiter’s chest. If Tolbert could make a positive identification of Rachel, he would certainly would recognize Lassiter. Hadn’t Dr. Tolbert mentioned that Lassiter was not their usual sort of customer? Unusual translated to memorable. 

Being caught was not the same as thing as confessing. 

“Sir?” 

The more he thought about it, the more doubts he had about his confession. What if he did admit his condition? They would only replace him with and a temporary detective who would have to play catch up while valuable time slipped through their fingers, maybe letting the killer slip through their fingers too? Honestly, Lassiter wasn’t totally confident in his ability to investigate this case but he did know a substitution at this point in the case would only be a disadvantage. Plus, Lassiter thought sadly, if this was his swan song he wanted to keep on dancing until the music stopped. He couldn’t give up, not yet.

“Yes, bring him in. Fill O’Hara in about the situation as soon as you get there.” 

“Shouldn’t I wait for you to fill everything in?” McNab inquired. “Secret Mission?” 

“No,” Lassiter said impatiently, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Now that we have a lead, it’s time to fill the others in. Besides, I want O’Hara to take Dr. Tolbert’s statement. I have somewhere else I need to be.”

“Right sir,” McNab answered with a note of uncertainly still in his voice. “But there is more.” 

Lassiter listened closely. 

“Rachel was at the free clinic to have an abortion but changed her mind at the last minute. She was going to keep the baby.” 

Lassiter’s weary brain went back to the night at the free clinic. He remembered Rachel’s cryptic mutterings, “Two equals three, and three becomes one—then two again.” The father, Rachel, and the baby made three. If the truth was discovered by Todd, her fiancé, whom Lassiter suspected wasn’t the father, why else would she be considering an abortion, he would leave her, the number would fall from three to two, only baby and Rachel. But if Rachel had the abortion it would be only her but Todd would return? Three, to two, to one, back to two. 

“Good work,” Lassiter hung up before he heard McNab’s gushing gratitude for the opportunity. 

The information McNab had presented to Lassiter was monumental. It was casting more doubt on Todd being the father, and casting him as a more viable suspect. Todd could have easily found out Rachel was pregnant with another man’s child and either killed her for her infidelity or simply to avoid scandal. The road they had found Rachel on was very remote; Todd could have reasonably assumed that she would never be found. 

Lassiter fumbled through his suit pockets before finding the little orange bottle and swallowing two more than the recommended dosage printed on the label. Next, he called Chief Vick and asked her if the team was assembled to search Dale Harrison’s and Todd Lancaster’s homes for any evidence, namely the engagement ring. Lassiter learned that Vick had ordered the team in an hour ago. She had chosen to pounce in the early hours of dawn, hoping to use the element of surprise, before either suspect had a chance to hide or destroy the evidence. 

Finally, he texted O’Hara that a Doctor Tolbert had examined Rachel on the night of her death and was heading to the station right now for questioning and he wanted her to take the lead in the interrogation. He also relayed that he would take a taxi to work, trying to impress the importance of time in situations such as these through the limited medium of text messaging. It must have worked because she replied with a plain, ‘Okay.’ 

Lassiter did his usual morning rituals without the typical urgency because he had no intention of going to work while Doctor Tolbert was still in the building. When Lassiter had finished his grooming he looked out the window and to his surprise, saw a familiar blue Echo in the parking lot. 

Two minutes later, Lassiter was peering into the windows of the Echo. Shawn and Gus were in a deep slumber with Gus occasionally snoring loudly. 

Lassiter rapped his knuckles against the glass. Gus jump and immediately gripped the steering wheel with an expression of wide-eyed bewilderment on his face while Shawn’s head smacked the window with a dull thud. 

Lassiter motioned for Gus to lower his window, which he did with some hesitation. 

“Morning,” Lassiter gave them a crooked grin, slightly amused by Shawn’s massaging the spot of his head that he had bumped against the glass. “What are you doing here?”  
Gus looked at Shawn. 

“Dude, did Jules forget to tell you? We’re here to pick up for work.” 

Lassiter gave him a look. 

“Oh Jules, that forgetful beauty.” He smiled. “Well, no harm, no foul. Now get in this car, or we’ll be late.” 

Lassiter knew it was a lie; not just because Shawn and Gus looked as innocent as kids who had been caught red-handed with their fingers in the cookie jar. It was obvious they spent the night camped out here from the pile of take-out containers stacked in the backseat, and the fact he had found them sound asleep. O’Hara wouldn’t have forgotten to mention she arranged a ride for him and she most certainly would not have sent Shawn and Gus for said ride. 

Lassiter was about to call their bluff but a sudden brainstorm stopped him. “Oh yeah. Now that I think about it she did mention something like that.” 

“She did?’ Gus blurted out. Shawn elbowed his in the ribs. 

“You guys are supposed to take me to where Rachel’s body was found,” Lassiter informed them, climbing into the backseat. 

“Right,” Shawn agreed, beyond thrilled that Lassiter had apparently fallen for their lie. 

Gus turned the key in the ignition, shifted The Blueberry into gear, and drove off towards the crime scene. 

Lassiter tried not to notice Shawn’s and Gus’s fist bump. If they wanted him to act the fool, Lassiter would oblige for now, as long as it proved beneficial to him. And having an alibi to deflect suspicion for his absence at the station for a key witness would prove to be very, very beneficial.


	15. Or maybe you're dying

With tremendous might, Lassiter tried not to drift off during the long car ride to the outskirts of Santa Barbara. Yet, the gentle lulling movement of the car, so unlike the jerky movements of O’Hara’s cruiser, and Shawn and Gus’s nonsensical chattering proved a potent sleeping draft. ‘Maybe it’s not the either of those things, or even the combination of the two,’ Lassiter thought wearily, ‘maybe it’s just the pills?’ He vaguely recalled Dr. Tolbert cautioning him about operating heavy machinery.

‘Or maybe . . . you’re just dying.’ 

Rachel was running through a field of daisies. She was sun-kissed and had a true smile playing on mouth. She turned towards Carlton and froze. She looked down at her belly, swollen with child, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders. When she looked up again, the tips of her hair were stained with blood. A hole over her heart was pumping red hot blood down her front with every heartbeat. She wasn’t smiling anymore but weeping.

Lassiter snapped back to reality when Shawn slammed the passenger door closed.

“Shawn!” Gus chastised him. “This is a company car.”

Lassiter pushed himself out of the back seat with a grunt of pain, thankful that Gus and Shawn were too busy arguing to witness his ungraceful uncoordinated exit.

He began pacing the stretch of road slowly, deliberately. Though Lassiter’s reasons for coming out here was a ploy to avoid running into Tolbert, that didn’t mean any new evidence couldn’t be discovered.

Rachel’s blood had faded to a brownish color, almost invisible against the ruddy hue of the gravel road. Lassiter circled the spot several times but gained no new knowledge. Afterwards, Lassiter tried to shout but his throat felt constricted. His voice came out dry and raspy. A result of pure exhaustion? “Spencer, Guster,” he tried again, this time able to make himself speak a little louder. Shawn and Gus broke their argument to listen to Lassiter. 

“The day we found Rachel’s body, you came from that direction,” Lassiter reminded them, once he’d gained their attention, and pointed towards the woods.

“Yeah,” Gus grouched, apparently still peeved over that woodsy trek, “the patrol officer said he didn’t know who we were.”

“Can you believe that? Not knowing who we are?” Shawn ridiculed. “We’ve only solved, like, a million cases.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Can you focus? That’s where you came from, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Did you seen anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, why?” Shawn looked vaguely perplexed.

Lassiter indicated the bloodstained road again. “There were no tire tracks. Meaning—”

“The killer most likely hiked in,” Shawn interrupted. "They must have carried Rachel's body and dumped it here, or else there would have been signs of a struggle."

Lassiter nodded. “It hasn’t rained, so with a miracle, we might be able to pick up on their trail. Maybe we can root out which direction the killer came from.” 

"Dude, race you to the edge of the woods!" Shawn shouted excitedly.

"It wouldn't be a fair race. You know I'm faster then you, Shawn." Gus laughed. 

"Are not," Shawn bit back.

"I was on my college's track team."

"You were the water boy." 

Gus shoved Shawn, pivoted and sprinted off towards the woods. 

"Unfair!" Shawn shouted at Gus's retreating back. 

Shawn looked over his shoulder at Lassie, who had remained curiously silent throughout Gus's and his argument. Shawn had expected him to respond with his usual fire, or at the very minimum with a disapproving scowl, but Lassie hadn't done or said anything.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked concernedly. 

Lassiter ignored Shawn's and started walking in the direction of the woods. 

#####

They trudged through the thick undergrowth of the woods, battling the thorny plants and uneven terrain.

Lassiter limbs felt heavy and uncooperative. They protested every movement, but there was no pain. The pills had numbed him everywhere. Even his mind felt dull and sluggish. He was irritated with his rash indulgence of more than the recommended dosage. It was true that he wasn’t suffering, but how many vital clues might he overlook in his current state of mind?

“Hurry up, Lassie.”

Lassiter had had his attention so fully fixed upon the area directly in front of him that he was surprised to see Gus and Shawn yards ahead when he looked up.

“It’s called being thorough,” he yelled back, a convincing lie.

“Don’t they have teams for this sort of thing?” Gus complained.

“Resources are stretched too thin as it is,” Lassiter snapped back. “Besides, they’ve already been here.”

“What?” Gus exclaimed. “Then why are we doing this?”

“I thought something could have been missed,” Lassiter mentioned, catching up to them.

“It’s happened before,” Shawn whispered snidely. 

Lassiter sneered. “Just keep looking.”

And they did keep looking for almost two full hours. Similar to examining the dirt road, Lassiter gained no new knowledge from their search. No footprints, broken tree branches, or swatches of torn fabric. Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch.

The three men lumbered out of the woods and back to Gus’s car. Shawn’s and Gus’s arms and hands had dozens of small cuts from the trees’ splintering branches and the thickets. Lassiter’s arms had been spared the same abuse by the long sleeves of his suit.

Gus and Shawn were in foul moods as they nursed the small wounds. They dabbed the cuts with cotton balls soaked in peroxide from Gus’s first aid kit, which he kept in the trunk of his car. Lassiter relished the idea that it was years of complied karma finally catching up to them.

“You don’t have to look 'so' amused,” Shawn grumbled, dabbing a scratch along his elbow.

Lassiter’s smirk flattened, and an expression of grave seriousness overtook it, but not because of Shawn’s comment. His brow furrowed and he stared at something in the distance hard enough to melt it. When Shawn turned his gaze in the same direction he didn’t notice anything that would call for that level of concentration.

“Lassie?”

“We have to get back to the station,” he said cryptically before climbing into the backseat.


	16. Bulldog lawyers

When Lassiter, Gus, and Shawn arrived at the precinct forty minutes later, the station was practically bursting with excited energy. The bullpen was crowded with detectives, officers, and members of the press. The media was snapping photos while everyone spoke over each other. It was a mad house. 

Lassiter sought out O’Hara. “What’s going on?”

“Vick’s team found the ring at Dale Harrison’s. It was hidden in one of his statues.” O’Hara raised her voice so she would be heard over the incredible noise. She grabbed Lassiter's elbow and took him aside and spook directly in his ear. “And the DNA test came back. The baby was his. We have him in Interrogation Room One."

Without waiting for another word of explanation, Lassiter headed for the Interrogation Rooms at top speed.

"Wait, Carlton. Vick and I already tried to question him. His public attorney, Bert Tennyson, is a real bulldog. He won't let anyone near Dale." Juliet called after him. 

“O’Hara, you’ve just gotta trust me on this.” Lassiter called back over his shoulder. "I have a plan."

He flung the door open unceremoniously to a dumfounded Dale Harrison and a very angry looking Bart Tennyson.

"You're a thief." Lassiter accused. 

"What?" Dale spluttered, obviously taken off-guard. 

Lassiter ignored Dale's question. "We could easily lay a felony grand theft charge. I'll make sure it sticks and you get the maximum. That's three years, Dale. Three." 

"I don't know what you're talking about." Dale voice was rising in frustration and desperation. 

Tennyson placed a hand on Dale's shoulder and whispered something into his ear. Dale nodded once and fell silent.

"Detective, my client has no knowledge of stolen property." Tennyson said as cool as a cucumber. 

Lassiter stared into Tennyson's eye, sizing him up. Tennyson stared right back, matched Lassiter's intensity. 

“Roll up your sleeves,” Lassiter demanded.

“What?” Dale asked, confused.

“Roll up your sleeves,” Lassiter repeated.

“What is this all about?” Tennyson asked, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

Lassiter was unsure how to proceed. He tried to weigh how much he could safely give away without undermining the department and Vick’s authority. “I think it might help your case,” Lassiter finally admitted. 

Dale looked to his lawyer for some direction.

“How?” the Tennyson questioned.

Lassiter tossed a glance over his shoulder, made sure no one was listening. “Scratches,” he said plainly. “There were no car tracks at the scene of the crime, which means Rachel and her killer walked in. The surrounding forest is covered with wild undergrowth consisting mainly of thickets and some pretty nasty trees with barbed spikes on their branches. Now,” Lassiter paused to inhale, “the night Rachel was killed it was eighty seven degrees out, which we can all agree would make a jacket or even long sleeves impractical and therefore very unlikely.”

Dale nodded along. “Their arms would be bare.”

“But your theory only works if we assume the killer chose the spot on a whim,” the Tennyson argued. “If that had been the intended area all along, wouldn’t the killer have come prepared, with long sleeves to shield himself against the thickets and trees?”

“But I do think the killer acted on a whim.” Lassiter shook his head, “I mean, it was premeditated up to a point. Rachel Owens was a very prominent woman—charity events, parties, galas, all in the public eye. Almost every waking moment of Rachel’s life was planned and surrounded by crowds of people. The killer would have to wait for the perfect opportunity, until Rachel was alone. The opportunity might have come at any time, making it impossible to plan for. I think the only thing the murderer kept with him was the actual murder weapon, as everything else could be improvised. Hypothetically, if Dale was the killer,” Lassiter finished, “I assume his familiarity with nature being his chosen medium would lead him to a more hospitable location."

“Why are you helping me?” Dale asked cautiously.

Lassiter chewed the inside of his cheek. “Because I believe you loved Rachel.” Lassiter surprised himself by his admission.

Dale searched Lassiter’s face before rolling up his sleeves to reveal undamaged skin underneath.

Lassiter turned around before he exited the room. “If you mention this conversation to anyone, I’ll deny it.” He directed pointedly at the Tennyson. “It wouldn’t look good if the SBPD’s Head Detective was helping a suspected murderer beat a convection.”

“Covering your own ass,” the Tennyson grumbled.

“Always,” Lassiter replied before making his exit.


	17. I know what you did

Lassiter convinced O’Hara to accompany him to Todd Lancaster’s house. He wasn't sure how Spencer and Gus has weaseled their way into the situation, but there they were.

They drove up the driveway to Todd’s house.

Lassiter filled O’Hara in on his theory. She unanimously agreed, while also pointing out that the ring had only been discovered when they had brought it to Todd’s attention that it had been missing. Coincidence? Highly unlikely.

Todd was looking more and more like the perfect perpetrator for Rachel’s murder. 

The pain had returned to Lassiter with a terrible vengeance. He could not muster up the strength to hide his discomfort while getting out of the car. O’Hara evidently noticed by the concern edged in her face. He attempted to downplay its significance with a shrug coupled with a crooked smile, but she wasn’t buying it. Lassiter considered taking more pills but decided against it; what could unfold would be too important for him not to be at his sharpest. 

Lassiter knocked on the door and was a little surprised when Brandon Owens answered.

“Hello, Detective . . . eh,” He had forgotten Lassiter’s name.

“Lassiter, and this is O’Hara,” Shawn offered helpfully.

“Oh yes, do come in,” Brandon said, stepping aside to allow them to enter.

“Answering doors again?” Lassiter asked offhandedly.

Brandon laughed, “I was passing by when I heard the bell.”

“Is Todd Lancaster home?” O’Hara asked.

Brandon motioned for them to follow him. They did. He led them to a beautifully built gazebo with vines dotted with white and purple blossoms creeping up its pillars. The gazebo's floor was a handsome brown cobblestone.  
Todd was sipping a tall glass of lemonade, reclining on a white wooden bench. As they moved into the gazebo, Sue Thompson became visible. She was leaning against one of the pillars playing with her string of pink pearls. Brandon stood beside her.

“Well hello, Detectives,” Todd greeted, then he noticed Shawn and Gus. “And you are?”

“Shawn Spencer, and this is Earnest Lambert Watkins.”

Gus gave Sue a wink and a smile which she returned with a look of disdain.

“What can I help you with today?” Todd asked, motioning them to sit down. “Lemonade?” he offered.

Shawn and Gus readily accepted. Lassiter and O’Hara politely declined. 

“Mr. Lancaster, are you aware that Mr. Harrison was taken into custody this morning?”

“No, I was not.”

“He has been charged with theft and first degree murder.” 

Todd couldn’t think of anything to say so he took a big gulp of lemonade.

“But he will be released and charges will be dropped,” Lassiter stated nonchalantly. It was a bluff, but Todd didn’t know that.

There was a loud smashing of glass. Brandon’s cup had slipped from his grip and shattered to a thousand pieces on the cobblestone.

“Released?” Sue spat indignantly. She yelled out in some borderline hysterical manner, “Why would you release him if you had him? You cops are so dumb!”

“The evidence is weak at best,” Lassiter continued, loosening the knot in his tie.

“Gosh, it’s hot today,” she commented to no one in particular, fanning herself. “I guess. It was hot that night too.” O’Hara looked hard at Todd. 

“What night?” He was unconsciously fiddling with the cufflinks of his white shirt.

“The night Rachel was killed.” O’Hara said without any emotion.

“I suppose, I don’t really remember.” Todd fidgeted.

Shawn drained his glass and reached across the table for the pitcher of lemonade. “Nothing like a cold drink on a hot day, eh?” 

“What? Oh yeah,” Todd agreed without having heard what Shawn said. Todd unbuttoned his collar before starting to roll up his sleeves. ‘Was it really going to be that easy?’ Lassiter thought.

Gus, Shawn, O’Hara, and Lassiter all waited in thinly veiled anticipation as Todd rolled up his sleeves to reveal . . . nothing.

Shawn looked at Gus and mouthed the words ‘Where is it?’

O’Hara turned to Lassiter expectantly but Lassiter’s was still staring at the undamaged skin of Todd’s forearms. He had been so sure that it was Todd. He begun the silent self-abuse that ensued every time he was wrong when his gaze fell upon Brandon, then at Sue. He hadn’t notice before; both wore shirts with long sleeves despite the stifling heat. 

Brandon stood stock still, eyes locked with Lassiter’s. 

“Why?” Lassiter asked Brandon and Sue.

“For love?” Lassiter asked, turning his attention to Sue.

“You would do anything for love, but you should never do that,” Shawn half hummed, half singsonged. 

“I don’t love Todd!” Sue said with a scowl.

“Todd?” Gus questioned, lowering his glass.

“Yes.” It all clicked. “The murder was a crime of passion but Rachel was never the object of desire, she was merely the obstacle. Rachel was in a love triangle, it was common knowledge as Todd has stated. Two men hopelessly in love with the same women is the perfect recipe for murder. All the ground work was set but the opportunity wasn’t right, not until that night . . .” Shawn said accusatory at Sue.

“I said I don’t love Todd!” Sue all but screamed.

“No, your motive was hate,” Lassiter said coolly. “You hated her. Why wouldn’t you? She was wealthier than God, adored, confident, beautiful, in short, everything you wanted to be.” Lassiter took a second to swallow; the cold metallic blood taste had returned.

Sue flushed bright red.

Lassiter turned back to Brandon. “Your motive was love.”

Brandon didn’t move or say anything.

“You love Todd.”

Todd looked up at Brandon bewilderedly. “Is that true?”

Lassiter ignored Todd and kept on, “You know you would be perfect together if only he could see that, but he would never have the chance, not with Rachel always in the way. Then when she told you she was pregnant, you knew the window of opportunity was rapidly closing. Because you assumed Todd was the father, why else would she be considering keeping it?”

Brandon whole body shook. He was obviously embarrassed and angry at being outed in front of everyone.

“You knew she was pregnant?” Sue snapped, turning her wild eyes at Brandon.

“And you told your parents? Your parents knew you killed your sister? And they helped you cover it up?” Shawn stated with a shade of disgust.

Brandon dropped his eyes to the ground.

“The last part of the plan was the easiest: Pinning it on Dale Harrison. After you found out about Rachel’s pregnancy, you decided to use it to your advantage. You figured it like this: When Dale found out that Rachel was engaged to Todd and was carrying Todd’s baby, he would fly into a jealous rage and kill her. You also knew we would pull Dale’s file, see his past drug addiction, and assume he was using again. Dale would go to prison and a grief-stricken Todd would seek comfort in the very arms of Rachel’s murderer.”

“Whoa, Lassie, look at you go with the monologuing,” Shawn interjected with a smirk.

Ignoring him entirely, Lassiter went on, “But you had to plant the final piece of evidence that would make Dale look like the indisputable killer: the ring. But when to do it? Dale was backpacking all week. The place was locked up tight; despite being an organic hippie, he did have a security system. It would be impossible to plant the ring discreetly, so you waited, but the longer you waited the harder it became. Police started showing up regularly, unannounced. Then just as you were getting desperate—you saw the statue behind an open door. I assume neither of you have ever been in Dale’s house before that moment?” 

“Why would we be?” Sue seethed.

“Because if you had, you would have known that that statue had been returned that very morning from the University of New York after Dale Harrison had already been escorted by a uniformed officer to our station. There is no way Dale Harrison could have hidden the ring in it.”

“Don’t listen to them, Brandon, ” Sue interjected.

“Roll up your sleeves, then.”

“What? Why?” Sue sputtered.

“Rachel’s body was covered with small cuts and scrapes from the forest she had be carried through to end up at the deserted road. Whoever took her there would be covered in them too.”

Nobody moved. Nobody uttered a word.

The silence began to grate on Lassiter’s nerves. “The child wasn’t Todd’s,” Lassiter informed. “Todd would have left Rachel as soon as he found out and he would have found out because Rachel had decided to keep the baby.”

Without warning, Brandon pulled Sue close to him in a choke-hold.

Lassiter and O’Hara drew their weapons immediately.

“It was all Sue’s idea,” Brandon protested.“She was the only one who knew how I felt about Todd. She kept saying over and over that I would never have a chance, if Rachel kept coming in and out of his life. Stringing him along.”

Brandon pulled something from his back pocket and pushed it against Sue’s back.

“Brandon, we can help you,” O’Hara soothed.

“I’m so stupid,” Brandon raged. “I killed my sister and Todd still doesn’t love me. Now that he knows, he won’t ever love me.” Brandon looked inconsolably sad. Todd had backed away from him with pure horror in his features.

“Brandon, you made a mistake—”

“A mistake? Double parking is a mistake, giving the wrong change is a mistake—” he yelled. “What I did was purposeful.”

Before anyone could attempt to calm Brandon down, there was a loud bang. Sue slumped forward onto the table, eyes wide with surprise, mouth stuck somewhere between a gasp and a silent scream. Brandon took off at a full sprint back toward the house.

O’Hara moved forward towards Sue, pulled out her radio and called for help. Lassiter, having faith O’Hara could control the situation on the gazebo, ran hot on Brandon’s heels, with Shawn on his.

“Shawn, get back here!” Gus called after him.


	18. Two of a kind

Adrenaline made him soar, replacing the pill’s dulling effects. Lassiter was able to keep up with Brandon as he covered the manicured lawn, the stretch of cobblestone walkway, the raised porch, and into the house. 

Brandon ran up the large mahogany staircase leading to the upper level. As soon as his foot landed, he whirled around and started taking wild shots at Lassiter. A picture just to the left of Lassiter’s head exploded. 

Lassiter instinctively threw up his arms to cover his eyes from the shards of glass and splinters of wood. Brandon took advantage of Lassiter’s brief moment of obscured vision to disappear into one of the dozen rooms on the second level. 

Without warning Lassiter’s world tilted on its side. “Damn!” Lassiter cursed. “Not now!” A wave of nausea washed over him and he felt like he was upon the deck of a ship instead upon the level surface where he stood. He leaned over the railing and retched violently. Stomach acid and blood poured out of his mouth to the handsomely polished floor below. 

“Lassie!” Shawn cried from the bottom of the stairs. He rushed to Lassiter’s side and pulled the detective away from the railing. “Where are you hit?” 

Lassiter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing the blood left on his lips. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re bleeding!” Shawn protested, searching Lassiter’s body for signs of a wound. 

“Only on the inside,” Lassiter scoffed. 

“What?” Shawn asked, dumbfounded. 

It was then Lassiter realized that by some fluke or miracle Spencer hadn’t witnessed him being sick. He had only seen the blood, but had no idea where it had come from. 

Shawn was tugging at Lassiter’s shirt, attempting to pull the material up to examine Lassiter’s torso; as if the thin layer of cloth would somehow be able to hide a gushing bullet wound. 

“Just a flesh wound,” Lassiter lied, trying to push Shawn off of him. 

“Flesh wounds don’t bleed that much!” Shawn protested with a wad of cloth still in his hand. 

With a draining effort, Lassiter shoved Shawn away. “Back off, Spencer. I swear to God, I will arrest you for impeding an arrest." 

Shawn ignored Lassiter's treat and held fast to his shirt. 

"Shawn," Lassiter said softly tone. 

Shawn was so taken aback by Lassiter's change in tone that he stilled and looked up into the detective's face. 

"Shawn, I need to do this. I have to do this. Please," Lassiter all but begged. 

"Why?" 

"For her," Lassiter said earnestly. 

Shawn released the fabric of Lassiter’s shirt and raised his hands in surrender. He looked toughed by the detective’s actions, but right now Lassiter didn’t have time to decipher the meaning behind Shawn’s lingering expression of thoughtfulness. 

“He’s getting away. I can’t let that happen.” 

Shawn was rendered speechless, his hands still raised. 

Lassiter started back up the stairs with less energy than he had before. He had a vague awareness that Spencer was shadowing him. He knew ordering Spencer to leave would be a further waste of effort and time. At least with Spencer behind Lassiter, Lassiter could keep tabs of him, keep him out of the way and out of danger—it was the lesser of two evils. 

The upper floor was eerily silent. Each room possessed a cold museum quality, lacking the warmth of a typical house. The lack of anything intimate was alienating. 

Lassiter struggled to keep his breath even as the pain ate away at him. The muscles in his legs shook so hard that it was hard to stay on his feet. 

“Dude,” Shawn protested in a strained whisper behind him. “Let me at least bandage the wound.” 

Lassiter ignored him and continued to walk down the long hallway. 

“Lassie,” Shawn tried again, “let’s wait for backup. At least Gus. Or Jules. You don’t look so good. I think you might be going into shock.” 

“Shut up, Spencer,” Lassiter snapped, searching what seemed like the hundredth room. He’s probably right, Lassiter thought darkly. 

“Lassie . . .” 

“What, Spencer?” Lassiter whipped around fuming, finally losing his patience. 

Shawn stared back at him in wide-eyed terror. Brandon had Shawn in a chokehold with the barrel of the gun pressed against Shawn’s sweating temple. Brandon’s sleeves were pushed up from the contact against Shawn’s neck. Lassiter could see dozens of fading scratches covered his skin. 

No one said anything for what felt like minutes, but was probably less than thirty seconds. The tension was palpable. 

With a tremendous effort Lassiter kept his gun leveled at Brandon though his limbs were quickly on their way to becoming jelly. His adrenaline must be wearing off. 

Brandon edged towards another set of stairs, which Lassiter presumed led to the third floor. 

“Brandon,” Shawn began, “where we going, buddy? You have to know there’s no way out.” 

“For once in your life, shut up Spencer,” Lassiter hissed. Brandon was on the ragged edge, and didn’t need any reminders that his situation had become a hopeless one. To Lassiter’s relief, Shawn obeyed and clamped his jaw shut. 

To Lassiter’s surprise the staircase led not to another level but to a balcony with a wraparound railing that had been invisible from the ground due to the tree cover. 

A stiff breeze whipped their hair and clothes around their faces and bodies. Lassiter who usually held his gun with two hands so he could brace himself for the kickback when it was fired, took one hand off his gun and grabbed the railing to steady himself. His right arm still pointed the gun at Brandon’s head. 

“I should have known you would be trouble, Detective,” Brandon yelled over the roar of the wind. “You have the same look Rachel had in her eyes.” 

Lassiter said nothing. 

“That same wild recklessness . . .” 

“You’re projecting,” Lassiter said, but he wasn’t sure if Brandon heard him over the wind. 

“No,” Brandon apparently had, “I’m not. I knew Rachel better than anybody else. See, life’s no fun when everything is handed to you. A half-life, with its pageantry and pretty baubles that ultimately mean nothing, surrounded by superficial people. Rachel acted the way she did because she felt she had nothing to lose, nothing that meant anything anyway.” 

Brandon inched backwards until his back bumped the railing. “That’s something we share with Rachel, you and I. We don’t have anything left to lose.” 

“You don’t know me,” Lassiter snarled, gripping the iron railing harder as his world began to spin. Lassiter's was struggling to hold his gun steady. Clouds were rolling in from the east, darkening the sky. 

“I studied Pre-Med at Columbia before my parents pressured me to switch to a Business degree.” Brandon raised an eyebrow. “But I don’t need a degree to recognize that you’re sick. A layman could tell.” 

Shawn craned his neck to gage the earnest expression on Brandon’s face before he turned his gaze upon Lassiter. Lassiter could feel Shawn’s X-Ray stare taking in his gaunt, haggard appearance that had so distorted his features. Shawn soaked in his shaking limbs, the way Lassiter’s cloth hung off his thin body. Lassiter knew Shawn was recalling all the indicators he had overlooked or otherwise ignored about Lassiter’s strange behavior of late. He could practically hear the gears in Shawn’s brain turning, and suddenly it become so blatantly clear to Shawn that Brandon was right. Pity filled Shawn’s hazel eyes. 

Lassiter wished Shawn would look away. 

“So what are you going to do?” Lassiter asked, ignoring Shawn. 

“Like I said, I have nothing left to lose,” Brandon said in an unnervingly calm voice. He had subconsciously loosened his hold on Shawn’s neck while they had been talking. He pulled back the hammer of the six shooter and pressed the gun harder against Shawn’s head. 

“Wait, wait!” Lassiter shouted. “He didn’t have anything to do with this. Look,” Lassiter leaned down with a stab of pain his abdomen and put his gun on the ground. “I was the one who put two and two together, not him. He couldn’t even tell I was sick. He’s nothing. A nobody.” Lassiter smiled his usual crooked grin. 

“Harsh! I know I’ve been off my game, but still,” Shawn interjected. 

Both Brandon and Lassiter ignored Shawn. 

“If you want to take revenge it should be against me,” Lassiter volunteered, straightening up with his arms raised in surrender. 

“Before I killed her . . . when I was leaning down over her body . . . she whispered in my ear not to hurt her baby. If she had only told me who the father was . . . life’s hardly ever simple, is it?” 

He turned his gun at Lassiter. 

“No!” Shawn screamed as he broke the loosened chokehold and clumsily knocked the gun out of Brandon's hand. The gun hit the ground before sliding off the balcony to the garden below. When Shawn lashed out, Brandon released him, allowing Brandon enough space to pivoted and struck Shawn square in the jaw. Shawn crumpled under the force of the hit. 

Brandon lunged forward to snatch up Lassiter’s disregarded service revolver while Lassiter rushed forward and tackled him around the middle. The impact sent Brandon wheeling backwards over the railing with Lassiter still holding on. 

Shawn recovered in time to see both men topple over backwards as the iron railing. 

Shawn watched with a frame by frame clarity, like a slow motion part in a movie before time returned to its regular pace and Brandon and Lassiter were gone from his vision. 

“Lassie!” Shawn cried, stumbling over to the section of missing railing. 

Brandon was lying spread eagle on the ground below, blood haloing around his head. Even from this distance, Shawn knew with certainty that he hadn’t survived the fall. But where was Lassie? 

“Lassie!” Shawn cried again, desperation making his voice crack. 

“I’m here, Spencer.” 

Shawn looked down and saw Lassiter holding onto the gutter drain. 

“Lassie,” Shawn breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re alive!” 

“Yes, yes,” Lassiter snapped. “But I might not be for long if you don’t help me up.” 

“Oh right,” Shawn smiled. He leaned over the edge and offered his hand. 

Lassiter took it. 

Shawn’s relief was short-lived. Once Lassiter was safe on the opposite side of the railing he fell forward onto his hands and knees. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Shawn dropped to his knees beside Lassiter. 

“Yeah,” he said without really believing it. 

“What Brandon said is true, isn’t it?” Shawn asked cautiously. 

Lassiter couldn’t see any reason to lie anyone. The signs were too obvious to ignore now. “Yeah,” he said again. 

“I should have known,” Shawn berated himself. “It seems so clear now. At first I suspected you might be, but I pushed it out of my mind, because you never get sick. I thought it was more likely your divorce was causing you emotional distress or someone was threatening you . . . Oh my God, you slashed your own tires to throw us off the trail.” <>Despite the pain, Lassiter couldn’t help but smile. 

“You sly bastard.” Shawn was half impressed, half irritated. 

Lassiter coughed. A thin mist of blood decorated the palm of his hand which he used to cover his mouth. 

Shawn took out his cell to call for help but Lassiter reached out and stopped him. 

“What are you doing?” Shawn asked incredulously. 

“Not yet,” Lassiter panted. “Once you call it’ll all be over.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“My career,” Lassiter lamented, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “They won’t let you be a detective if you’re dying.” 

Shawn swallowed audibly. “Dying? You can’t be dying.” 

“I can’t?” Lassiter repeated, not sure how his mortality was up for debate. 

“You’re Carlton Lassiter, Head Detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department. You’re tough as nails. You can’t die,” Shawn declared as if that was the end of the argument. 

“I think I might have to disappoint you,” Lassiter said with a humorless laugh. He waved at the blood on his palm. 

A moment of quiet passed between them. 

“If I knew I was dying I would be on a beach somewhere sipping on a pineapple smoothie, watching the waves roll in, ” Shawn commented absently. Another pause. “So why are you still here, instead of on a beach somewhere?” 

“This is my beach,” Lassiter said plainly. He didn’t care how Spencer took that or even if he understood. It was his truth. The wind blew more gently now. The angry dark clouds had disappeared and were replaced with big white fluffy clouds floated against the sky. There was a soft scent of flowers in the air. 

“Can I call for help now?” Shawn asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Lassiter answered, thinking that he had never seen the sky quite so blue before.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to give credit to WebMD, Google, and Wikipedia, for the information they provided on stomach cancer, Peritonitis, abscesses, and Adenocarcinoma.  
> I want to give a special recognition to Silverluna. Thank you for inspiring me to write my own stories and supporting me in this endeavor.


End file.
